


A Crash Course in Computer Safety

by followthattardis



Series: Computer Safety Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chuck (TV) Fusion, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2019 (Supernatural), F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 13:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 85,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21320872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followthattardis/pseuds/followthattardis
Summary: On the day of his 29th birthday, Dean receives an email from his old nemesis: Michael Milton, the guy who got him kicked out of college and stole his girlfriend. The email contains encoded images with top secret CIA/NSA intelligence – and now their only copy is in Dean’s brain. Both agencies send their best operatives – Castiel Novak and Victor Henriksen respectively – to handle their accidental asset and protect the invaluable data in his head. To justify their sudden appearance in Dean’s life, they adopt covers: Victor as Dean’s new co-worker and neighbor, Cas as his new boyfriend. Needless to say, Dean’s brother and his girlfriend are thrilled to see him in a relationship they believe to be real. Clearly, there’s no way this could go wrong.(NBC’s Chuck AU).
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sarah Blake/Sam Winchester, mentions of past Dean/Other and Castiel/Other
Series: Computer Safety Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705486
Comments: 531
Kudos: 1491
Collections: DCBB 2019, Mixtape Book Club Podcast - Discussed Fics, ProfoundBond Fic Recs, SPN Best Works, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. The Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been four years in the making, and I can’t believe it’s finally done. What a ride!
> 
> The story is based on NBC's TV series Chuck, by which I mean it starts out following the show's plot very closely and then veers off completely. You **do not** need to be familiar with Chuck in any way to enjoy this fic. (Although I imagine it might be fun for Chuck fans to see what I changed and how.)
> 
> A huge thank-you to my amazing artist [purgatory-jar](http://purgatory-jar.tumblr.com), who was a delight to work with and created incredible art that you can check out [here](https://purgatory-jar.tumblr.com/post/188833517447/here-are-the-illustrations-i-did-for-this-years), as well as find embedded in the fic. She made my dream of seeing Cas in a leather jacket & with a gun come true. Be sure to go give her lots of love and compliments she deserves.
> 
> I’m also immensely grateful to [Natalia](http://apermanentsituation.tumblr.com) for finding the time to beta this story, offering feedback that helped me make it better, listening to my chaotic rambling, and answering dumb questions like “how drunk would Dean and Cas get if they split a bottle of whiskey?”. Both me and this story owe her big time.

Within five minutes of their first hello, Dean knows that this isn’t going anywhere.

The girl seems nice enough, definitely pretty – big brown eyes, sun-streaked hair and a flowy maxi dress that dances with every gust of wind blowing through the courtyard – but it soon becomes painfully obvious that they have nothing in common. Which isn’t that surprising, considering that more than half of the people at this party are Sam’s friends (fresh-out-of-school lawyers) or Sarah’s friends (hospital residents). Both Sam and Sarah went out of their way to invite as many single people around Dean’s age as they could, in the hopes that Dean would click with someone. And hey, Dean would love to _click_ with quite a few, like that tall blond guy currently chatting with Sam or even the girl he’s talking to right now, but not exactly in the way Sam and Sarah would want.

They’ve been nagging him about trying for a serious relationship for ages. Or rather Sam has, because Sarah is much too tactful to voice it. She doesn’t say anything when she catches Dean’s one-night stands in the kitchen or in the hallway of their shared apartment, in various stages of undress and with embarrassed, apologetic smiles on their faces. She doesn’t comment on the fact she never sees the same person more than two, maybe three times. With the calm and composure of someone much older than her 25 years, she watches these endless walks of shame, seated or leaned against the kitchen table as she eats her breakfast. The only sign of her worry is the subtle knitting of her eyebrows as she offers Dean his travel mug, already filled with coffee, and pats him on the arm when he leaves for work every morning.

Sam on the other hand...

Sam means well, of course. He’s in a happy, long-term relationship and he wants the same for Dean. Being an overprotective big brother himself, Dean can’t begrudge him that. He can, however, snap at him and ostentatiously march out of the room every time Sam suggests that the reason Dean can’t commit to anyone is because he still hasn’t gotten over Cassie.

It’s been six years. _Of course_ he’s gotten over Cassie. It’s not like your girlfriend dumping you for your best friend would give you trust issues, anyway.

“Sam tells me you went to Stanford, too.”

Dean blinks, and remembers he’s in the middle of a conversation. “Oh— yeah. I did.”

“What was your major?”

Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He does not like this line of questioning. “Engineering.”

“Oh, cool. So what are you doing now that you’ve graduated?”

Dean forces a smile and doesn’t correct her. “I’m the Nerd Herd supervisor at the local Buy More.”

“The what?” she asks. The corners of her mouth are still lifted, but Dean can practically see interest drain from her eyes.

“The Nerd Herd,” he repeats with resignation. “It’s tech support. Broken phones and laptops, that kind of stuff.”

“Oh,” she says.

They’re both quiet for a moment, and then the girl (Gail? Dean thinks her name is Gail) starts talking about what she majored in and what she’s doing now. Dean can’t even muster up any righteous indignation at the blunt change of topic. To be honest, he’s grateful she didn’t say it’s “nice”, or try to pretend like leaving Stanford only to end up in a dead-end, minimum-wage job isn’t utterly humiliating. He nods along as Gail fills him in on all the uninteresting details of her job, and wonders if there’ll be any more cake left once she’s done.

Salvation comes a few minutes later in the form of Charlie, who passes by on her way to the refreshments table. Holding Gail’s gaze to ensure she doesn’t look down, Dean grabs his left wrist with his right hand, then spreads and curls his fingers. It’s a signal him and Charlie have been using for years; it means _get me out of this, please_.

Dependable as always, Charlie makes a sharp turn and walks up to him in three quick strides.

“Dean, there you are!” she exclaims, grabbing his face and planting two quick, noisy kisses on both of his cheeks. “Happy birthday, old man! Can’t believe you managed to stay alive long enough to hit 29.”

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Dean grins. They’ve already done the whole birthday ritual earlier that day, but Gail doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting?” Charlie says, turning around as if she’s only now noticed Dean’s not alone. “I hope you don’t mind me butting in like that. I’m Charlie, by the way.” She sticks her hand out to Gail. “Oh, I love your dress. I’m too short to look good in a maxi myself. It’s the bane of my existence. But you look the bomb, girl.”

Like everyone who finds themselves on the receiving end of Charlie’s chatter, Gail looks equal parts confounded and amused. She barely seems to realize it when Charlie whisks her away to the other side of the courtyard, and only manages a distracted “see you around, Dean” before they’re both gone.

Heaving a long sigh of relief and making a mental note to thank Charlie later, Dean makes a beeline for the liquor table.

* * *

“Nothing?”

Dean rolls his eyes, but moves a little to the left, making room for Sam to sit next to him on the couch. “What did you expect, dude?” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’s not even drunk. What a useless party.

“I expected you to at least try to socialize,” Sam says.

“I did plenty of socializing.”

“I meant with new people, not your Nerd Herders. I saw you talking to Gail earlier, how did that go?”

“Well, I’m here talking to you, so clearly it went amazing.”

Sam huffs and opens his mouth to say something, but Dean beats him to it.

“Seriously, Sam, you need to stop. I get you want me to be happy or whatever, but you can’t force me into a relationship.”

“I’m not—”

“You are a little, Sam,” Sarah points out, appearing behind them with an armful of dirty plates. She pops into the kitchen to drop them in the sink, then comes back to plunk herself on the couch next to Sam. Her smile is warm and tired as she presses herself into the crook of his arm. “I know you have good intentions, honey, but Dean’s an adult. Let him be.”

“Thank you,” Dean says, shooting Sam a triumphant look.

“Even if,” Sarah continues, “his idea of adulthood involves holding onto past hurt and refusing to make himself vulnerable with anyone.”

“Okay, I’m going to bed now,” Dean says. Despite the grumbling tone of his voice, he grabs Sarah’s outstretched hand and squeezes it to let her know he’s not mad. Then, for good measure, he throws Sam the middle finger before disappearing into his bedroom.

He doesn’t have the energy to take a shower, so he limits himself to brushing his teeth and changing into his PJ’s. As he crawls under the covers and shuts off the bedside lamp, his hand instinctively reaches for his phone.

Cassie hasn’t contacted him since the day they broke up, but Dean can’t help but hope that maybe this year, he’ll at least get a stupid, simple “Happy birthday” text. If someone asked him why he wants to hear from her again, he wouldn’t be able to answer. He’s not in love with her anymore, and enough time has passed that they both must be different people now. Yet there’s a part of him – a masochistic, self-flagellating part – that needs to know how she’s doing, if she graduated as planned, where she lives. If she’s happy.

His heartbeat speeds up as he unlocks his phone and stares at the screen, its bright light harsh in the otherwise dark room.

No new text messages.

He does have an email notification, though.

“What the hell,” he mutters when he sees the sender’s name.

Sure, expecting your ex to send you birthday wishes is weird. Dean will be the first to admit that. But getting an email from the guy who stole her from you and then got you kicked out of school is probably weirder.

Dean hovers his finger over the notification, unsure if he should swipe it open. Him and Michael used to be thick as thieves in college. They were both smart, handsome guys with their whole lives ahead of them and the world at their feet; they both loved video games and had a knack for programming; and, as it turned out, they both liked the same girl.

Even after all these years, Dean still can’t decide whose betrayal hurt him worse, Cassie’s or Michael’s.

“There better be some nice fucking birthday wishes in there,” Dean says under his breath, and thumbs the message open.

It’s empty.

Before he can choose an expletive juicy enough, he notices a little icon below the empty subject line, indicating the message came with an attachment. The file’s name reads simply “Stanford”, and Dean frowns at it, confused. While Michael did stab him in the back, Dean wouldn’t suspect him of sending him a virus. Especially not out of the blue, after six years of radio silence.

In the end, curiosity gets the better of him. He taps the attachment, and the screen goes black, words starting to appear in white, block letters.

**The Leviathan charges at you.**

Whatever Dean thought could be hiding in that file, it wasn’t this.

“Purgatory, Michael? Really?” he mumbles to himself. “Feeling nostalgic, are we.”

Purgatory was a simple, text-based video game the two of them had programmed during their first year at Stanford. It wasn’t particularly elaborate or clever, but it was their own, made in the spirit of harmless fun. Dean had just begun getting into RPG back then, and together with Michael they crafted a short adventure that was less about actual gaming and more about flexing their programming muscles.

Seeing the opening words of the game blink at him in the dark, on the day of his birthday, stirs something heavy in Dean’s chest – something that feels suspiciously like regret.

At the time Purgatory was programmed, Dean had it all. The brains, the looks, the girl, the whole college experience unfolding before him like a pop-up book. His biggest worry was if he had any clean underwear left, and his greatest fear was his pen running out of ink in the middle of an exam. In hindsight, he had no idea how good he had it, how effortlessly everything came to him. His life was ripe and ready for the taking, his future bright and promising. At the age of 23, he was reaching for the stars.

_There’s no point to this_, Dean tells himself as he types in his next move. He doesn’t even have to strain his memory to remember it.

**Attack Leviathan with machete.**

The words disappear; the screen goes black. A second passes, and then—

His phone bursts with images. They change too fast to make out individual scenes, everything blurring together into one stream of colors and shadows. There must be hundreds, thousands of them, flashing before Dean’s eyes like a PowerPoint slideshow at 100 times the normal speed. As he watches, his mind seems to pick up more and more singular images: a dog in a metal cage – an ultrasound – a coffin – a cardinal in ceremonial robes – an explosion – a long hallway – a smoking gun – a cluster of buildings – a train rattling along the tracks – a silhouette emerging from the water, holding something in their arms – a formation of four fighter jets banking steeply to change direction...

Distantly, Dean becomes aware that his eyes are starting to hurt. They sting and water, tears running down his face in rivulets, dropping from his chin to his t-shirt. He hasn’t blinked in a while, and he should; blinking is good. He should blink.

His right hand tightens around the phone and his left curls into the sheets, like his body is trying to fight, but Dean doesn’t look away, _can’t_ look away. There’s more to see: a dark beach – a staircase – a group of men sitting around a table – a woman dressed in black – a crowded concert hall – a military parade – a man sobbing… The man fades away and there’s no new visual to take his place. The phone goes back to the inbox view, Michael’s empty email still sitting there, open.

Dean blinks, and blacks out.

* * *

“Whoa,” Charlie says when Dean opens the door. Her smile fades as she takes in his unshaven face, rumpled shirt and crooked tie. “You didn’t look that drunk when I was leaving last night. You okay?”

“Huh? Yeah, I— I’m okay,” Dean says distractedly, grabbing his car keys from the catch-all dish sitting on the dresser. “We’re good to go.”

“Seriously, Dean, you look like crap,” Charlie insists as they leave the apartment and walk across the courtyard. It’s back to its original state, no sign of last night’s party save for the extra table Sam and Sarah borrowed from one of their friends, now pushed out of the way and cleaned out. It was one of the conditions their neighbors had given them: they could throw Dean’s birthday party in the common area of the complex, but any evidence of it was to be gone by morning. Dean, Sam and Sarah agreed happily, because their apartment didn’t offer nearly as much space, not to mention ambiance. With its central three-tier water fountain, eye-pleasing greenery, wood-spindle balconies and time-worn concrete tiles leading up to the apartments scattered around it, the Spanish-style courtyard was a perfect backdrop for a social gathering.

“Didn’t sleep well, is all,” Dean hedges. It’s not technically a lie; while he slept like a log, it was the kind of sleep that leaves you exhausted. When his morning alarm went off, he woke up with his phone still clutched in his hand, fingers cramping around it, and a splitting headache to boot.

For a brief moment, Dean considers telling Charlie about Michael’s email. Aside from Sam, she’s the one person Dean can always confide in and expect nothing but support (albeit interspersed with some light ribbing) in return.

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. What would he even say? “Hey, remember the asshole who got me kicked out of school? He sent me an empty email with an attachment, and when I opened it I found a game we programmed at Stanford and a fuckton of pictures that seem to have fried my brain.” Jesus. No, he’s keeping that one to himself. It’s probably nothing, anyway. Just Michael playing some stupid prank on him or something.

Charlie eyes him suspiciously, but doesn’t press the issue. Together they pile into the car, and Dean puts it in reverse, pulling out onto the street. That monstrosity, a white-and-red Toyota Yaris with the Nerd Herd logo on each side, is possibly one of the worst aspects of working at Buy More. Company policy dictates that as the Nerd Herd supervisor, Dean can’t drive his own four wheels, which means it’s Sam who gets to use Dean’s beloved Chevrolet Impala. He hates it – God, the injustice of this world – but he’d rather Sam drive it than have his Baby sit unused and gathering dust. She needs the open road.

“Maybe some music will wake you up,” Charlie offers as they’re waiting to merge into traffic. She turns on the radio and fiddles with it for a minute, searching for something Dean won’t veto. (He vetoes a lot. Company car or not, he won’t allow any hip-hop.) While jumping from station to station, they catch a snippet of a news report.

_…at Universal City. Watch out for delays near Burbank Airport, security's checking all vehicles. We got a sigalert on the I-605, San Gabriel River Freeway, Ut South Bound. A fender bender on the I-5, Santa Ana freeway, north bound..._

The windshield disappears from before Dean’s eyes, replaced by an array of images. This time, the stream is much shorter, and Dean wouldn’t be able to name a single scene. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, his vision blurring, something echoing in his ears – something – something he’s just heard…

“Dean!” Charlie yells.

Abruptly, the world comes into focus again, and Dean swerves back into his own lane. The car on their left blows its horn long and hard as it passes them.

“Christ,” Charlie gasps. “Did you just nod off?”

“No,” Dean says, horrified to discover his voice is shaking. “No,” he repeats, louder and firmer.

“Listen, if you’re feeling that out of it, maybe skip work today? If you ask Bobby, I’m sure he’ll let you.”

“I’m good,” Dean protests. “Really. I promise,” he adds, because Charlie frowns at him in a way that suggests she’s not buying into his bullshit. “Side effects of partying too hard,” he jokes weakly.

“Dude, if you think that yesterday had anything to do with partying hard, I can only offer you my condolences.”

“I’m almost in my thirties now. Should probably update my standards.”

Charlie snorts, and Dean sends her a smile before turning his eyes back on the road. The view is as clear and sharp as ever, no disturbing flashes, no trace of anything wrong. Dean squints into the distance, and can easily make out the text written on the green signs mounted above the road well ahead of them. 20/20 vision.

What the fuck.

Although Charlie keeps glancing at him like she expects him to have a seizure, they make it to the Buy More without incident. Once there, Dean doesn’t have the time to wonder what might be wrong with him, because there’s a new crisis that demands his attention – a crisis by the name of Belladonna.

“Yes, yes, Belladonna like the porn star,” he says, rolling his eyes when Andy elbows Adam in the side, and they both snicker. “No judgment from me, kids, but you might reconsider going to her website unless you want your computer infected with a real nasty virus. We just got a tip from the Buy More in Pasadena, and it turns out the sucker fried the display version of their Prism Express laptop when one of their employees decided to get down and dirty after hours.”

Dean opens up their own display version of the same laptop and types in the website address into the browser.

“Here’s what happens. Charlie, close your eyes.”

“Not a chance.”

Dean winks at her, and hits enter.

Once the page loads, they’re treated to a rather crude collage of naked and semi-naked pictures of a curvy blonde, Photoshopped to high heavens. As Charlie gives a low whistle, a new window pops up, with yet another, this time highly explicit picture, and a smooth, sensual voice says: _Hello, sexy. Hello, sexy. Hello— hello s…. he-hellooo…. _– and with that, the laptop dies.

“As you can see,” Dean continues, shutting the laptop closed and putting it away under the counter, “it works fast and takes no prisoners. It’s not ransomware, just plain destruction. Gear up, ‘cause the lonely dude call volume will be high. Uh – some girls might call too, I guess,” he adds, throwing a glance at Charlie.

“No, I don’t think they will,” she says lightly. “Our tastes usually go beyond ‘huge tits and glistening tan’, you know. But thanks for the addendum, boss.”

“What’s wrong with having simple tastes?” Andy exclaims.

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it. It’s just boring. So boring.”

“Charlie… porn is entertaining just by being porn, that’s the _point_.”

“Oh, you poor boy.”

Dean takes that as his cue to leave and make himself some coffee.

His morning passes in a way most of them do, slow and tedious. Belladonna’s victims start calling in after ten o’clock, and by the dozenth time a guy tries to deny having entered the website despite clear evidence in the form of a fried laptop, Dean’s patience is hanging by a thread.

“No, sir, of course a cat walked across your keyboard,” he says into the phone in his best customer voice. “But the result remains the same: the virus destroyed your hard drive. You need to send or bring it in so we can replace it for you.”

The guy bitches and grumbles, but ultimately says he’ll come by later during the day, and hangs up without a goodbye.

Ah, customer service. So rewarding.

“I swear to God, these straight guys need to own up to their porn,” Dean says, rubbing his eyes.

Charlie snickers. “They need to own up to a lot more than that, but I get what you’re saying.”

Dean sighs and looks down at his watch. It’s not even noon yet.

“Hey, Charlie, do you mind taking over for a while? I need a break or the next person who calls is gonna get an earful.”

“Sure thing,” Charlie says. She abandons her post at the helpdesk and gently pushes Dean out of the way to sit down in his chair. Technically speaking, she’s just doing her job, but Dean leans down and kisses her forehead in a silent thank-you anyway. She grins up at him and pulls the phone closer, propping her elbows on the counter.

“These dudes are gonna be over the moon when they realize they have to explain their porn habits to a girl,” she muses. “Their discomfort is gonna fuel me for the rest of the day.”

“You are actually terrifying,” Dean tells her.

Charlie gives him the finger guns, and then her expression morphs from smug to curious as she notices something over Dean’s shoulder. “Customer incoming,” she mouths.

Dean turns around, and his well-practiced “Welcome to the Nerd Herd, how may I help you?” dies on his lips.

The man leans against the counter and gives him a polite smile. “Hello,” he says.

Dean has always prided himself on being an equal opportunity guy, dating-wise. Boy or girl, blond or brunette, tall or short, it’s never really mattered to him much. He’s down for anything: soft curves or hard planes of muscle, leaning down or standing on his tiptoes for a kiss, picking someone up in his arms and being picked up himself, running his fingers through short hair and pulling on longer hair. It’s all good and fun and thrilling, and Dean definitely doesn’t have a type.

But if he did, this would probably be it. It would be this exact guy, right down to clear blue eyes, unkempt dark hair, and a bicep the size of Charlie’s head.

“Hi— hello,” Dean manages. His eyes sweep over the guy’s body, taking in his denim jacket and a well-fitted black t-shirt underneath. Although the counter is hiding the rest of him, Dean thinks he saw a flash of a silver belt buckle.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, praying the man doesn’t notice – or doesn’t mind – being ogled.

“My phone’s acting up on me,” the guy says. He pulls it out of his pocket and slides it across the counter, screen up. “I was hoping you could help me?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Dean assures him. He spares a second to thank the universe that it’s not another case of Belladonna before picking up the phone and unlocking it. At first glance, it seems fine.

“I think it’s the battery,” the man clarifies, unprompted. “When I plug it in, it’s not charging. Or rather, it starts to charge, then stops, then starts again and so on.”

“Oh. Well, that sounds more like the cable’s to blame, actually. Hold on, let me check – Charlie, do we have a micro USB cable lying around here somewhere?”

They do, and once the phone is plugged in, it lights up to indicate charging in progress.

“We should wait a few minutes to make sure it keeps charging,” Dean says, “but I’m willing to bet the cable you’ve been using is frayed. Buy a new one and problem solved.”

“Thank God,” the man laughs, a low, delightful sound Dean immediately wants to hear again. “I thought I’d have to get a new phone.”

“If you ever do, drop by and I’ll help you choose,” Dean says before he can think what he’s doing. _Hitting on a customer who might not even swing that way. Great strategy, Winchester._ He almost expects to be punched in the face, but the man’s smile doesn’t waver. In fact, he leans closer, giving Dean a whiff of his cologne, and there’s definitely a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“I might take you up on that…” He glances down at the name tag on Dean’s chest, then back up at his face. “...Dean.”

“Anytime, customer whose name I’ve yet to find out.”

The guy flashes him another smile, closed-lipped but wide, and Dean’s heart does a somersault.

“It’s Castiel. Cas, for short. Shall we make our acquaintance official?”

The guy – Castiel – extends his hand for Dean to shake, an endearingly formal gesture that makes Dean roll his eyes. Cas’s palm is warm, and his handshake firm. When he lets go, Dean finds himself mourning the loss.

“Do you think we’ve waited long enough?” Cas asks, nodding towards his phone still lying between them.

“Yeah, it’s good. Here,” Dean says, unplugging it and handing it back. “You’ll find a new charging cable in aisle 3.”

“Perfect,” Cas says, without taking his eyes off Dean. “Before I go, could you do me one more favor?” He twiddles with his phone, like he’s weighing his options, then pushes it back into Dean’s hand.

“Is there something else wrong with it?”

“Yes,” Cas says, voice serious. “The contacts list lacks your number.”

As far as pickup lines go, it’s truly horrible, and Dean can’t help but laugh. Judging by a snort quickly covered by a cough, Charlie thinks so too.

“Well, we must do something about that,” Dean says, aiming for equal gravity. He punches in his number, then shoots off a text to himself for good measure. “There.”

“Thank you. Well, I better go get that cable then. I’ll see you around, Dean.”

“I sure hope so,” Dean says. He gives Cas a warm smile, and is rewarded with one in turn.

As soon as Cas is out of earshot, Charlie grabs Dean’s arm and uses it to wheel her chair closer to him. “Well, well, well,” she says in a singsong voice.

“What?” Dean asks defensively.

“That was one of the smoothest meet-cutes my eyes ever did see. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“There was nothing cute about it.”

“It was the cutest. Also – holy crap, Dean, that guy’s _hot_. Are you gonna call him?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says, trying to sound casual. It’s a blatant lie; he’s already itching to reach for his phone. He should probably wait for Cas to at least leave the store, though. And then add another twenty minutes as a cushion. Don’t want to come off desperate, after all.

“What’s there to know? You’re into him, and he’s clearly into you. Just ask him out.”

Dean latches onto that one word like a drowning man onto a lifeline. “Clearly?”

“Yes, clearly. He didn’t take his eyes off you the entire time he was here. Trust me, I was watching.”

It’s been a while since Dean experienced such a strong attraction to someone, and an even longer while since that attraction was mutual. So when his lunch break rolls around, he takes Charlie’s advice and sends Cas a text.

**>>> Dean**

How’s your phone doing? Everything ok?

**<<< Cas**

Yes, everything is in order. You were right, it was the cable.

**>>> Dean**

I’m often right about IT stuff, it’s kinda my thing

**<<< Cas**

I figured :)

**>>> Dean**

Not a technology guy yourself?

**<<< Cas**

Hardly. Don’t be surprised if I become a frequent visitor. Electronics don’t like me.

**>>> Dean**

No worries I’ll force them to cooperate with you

**>>> Dean**

Wouldn’t mind you becoming a frequent visitor though

**<<< Cas**

Careful what you wish for, Dean.

**>>> Dean**

Oh I know exactly what I wish for

**<<< Cas**

Enlighten me.

**>>> Dean**

Drinks tonight?

* * *

The prospect of a date with Cas effectively pushes any thoughts of Michael and his weird-ass email out of Dean’s mind. The disturbing flash that almost made him crash his car doesn’t repeat itself, and the rest of the day passes uneventfully, or at least as uneventfully as the Buy More standards dictate (Adam gets sick after eating leftover lasagna that has been sitting in their break room fridge since well before Thanksgiving, and Bobby yells at Andy for playing Xbox with an 11-year-old customer instead of fielding the Belladonna calls). By the time Dean makes it home, he’s thrumming with excitement, mentally picking out the outfit he’s going to put on after hopping out of the shower. His good mood wanes a little when he finds out Sam has taken the Impala and won’t be back with it until late, but Sarah points out that it’s a pretty solid incentive to score a second date.

“Besides, if he doesn’t like you without your sexy muscle car, he doesn’t deserve to see it,” she says, a teasing edge to her voice.

“I know you’re making fun of me right now, but I don’t care.”

“Me, making fun of you? Never.” She straightens out the collar of his shirt and smiles up at him. “Now go take your nasty Toyota and charm the pants off this guy. Where are you taking him?”

“Just a bar.”

“Very romantic.”

“Sarah,” Dean says, suddenly not liking where this is going. “It’s just a night out with some guy I met at work. Don’t make a big deal out of this. And don’t tell Sam.”

Sarah’s eyebrows draw together, and her hands drop from Dean’s collar. “Why not?”

“Because he’ll get too excited and start planning my wedding. If this flops, he doesn’t even need to know.”

Sarah considers this for a moment, her eyes searching Dean’s with disconcerting, laser-like focus. Sam’s own stable relationship and his desire to see Dean settled and happy makes him look at everyone Dean’s interested in like a potential brother or sister-in-law, but Sarah – she gets it, Dean thinks. She gets that sometimes people just hook up, then move on. That they may date for a while, and decide it’s not going to work out. That not everyone is lucky enough to meet the love of their life at the age of 18. That sometimes, a person you thought would stay in your life forever dumps you for your best friend and leaves you loath to trust anyone again.

“Okay,” Sarah says. “I’ll hold off on telling him, but if there’s a date number two, you’re gonna own up to it.”

“Fine, Jesus. _If_ there is one, I will.”

“Good.”

Dean’s already halfway to the door when Sarah’s voice stops him.

“He’s aware of it, you know.” She doesn’t say the name, but she uses that warm tone she reserves only for talking about Sam. “He’s aware that he can come off strong sometimes. He’s working on reigning it in, but he wants to see you happy. After all you’ve been through with Michael and Cassie and – and everything. You’ve taken care of him his whole life, and now he’s trying to return the favor. In his own way.”

Out of the blue, Dean’s throat closes up. He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

She stares at him, and nods back. “Good,” she repeats. “Good. Now skedaddle.”

So Dean skedaddles, and drives his “nasty Toyota” to the bar where him and Cas are supposed to meet. Since he’s a little early and Cas is nowhere to be seen, Dean slides onto a stool and orders a beer. His thoughts circle back to what Sarah said, to the memories of the shocked and devastated look on Sam’s face when Dean told him Stanford had showed him the door. Poor kid took it almost as badly as Dean himself. If it weren’t for Sarah talking some sense into him, he would have broken Michael’s face and gotten himself suspended.

“You’re very punctual.”

Dean whirls around, almost spilling beer on himself. “Christ, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” Cas says, taking a place next to Dean and signaling the bartender to bring him whatever Dean’s having. His hand touches Dean’s arm in greeting, a light pressure that’s gone way too soon. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

Mutely, Dean shakes his head, well aware that he’s staring again. For some reason, Cas has swapped the denim jacket from earlier for a black leather one, and if Dean thought it was bad before, he had it wrong.

If he manages to go the entire evening without jumping this guy, it’ll be a goddamn miracle.

* * *

As it turns out, talking to Cas is easy. He’s a little rough around the edges, doesn’t get some of Dean’s jokes, and stares at him blankly when Dean asks if he likes video games, but overall he has an effortless charm about him that seems almost too perfect. He listens attentively when Dean tells him about his work and his friends, about Sam and Sarah, and some other crap Dean should probably skip on a first date. In turn, Cas tells Dean that he’s just moved to California from D.C.; that he doesn’t know anyone here yet; that the reason he decided to uproot his life was a bad breakup.

“It’s probably not what you want to hear,” he murmurs, thumbing at the layer of condensation gathered on his glass, “but I think it’s only fair to warn you that I come with baggage.”

“We all have some of that,” Dean says. At some point during the evening, they’ve moved closer to each other, so he doesn’t have to raise his voice to make himself heard over the din of the bar. Their hands lie on the counter, just shy of touching, and Cas’s eyes are very blue up close.

“So what’s yours?” Cas asks, taking a sip of his beer. “Any skeletons in your closet?”

Michael’s and Cassie’s faces float to the forefront of Dean’s mind, but he forces them back. Cas doesn’t need to hear about that.

“Nah, I’m boring,” he says with a rueful smile.

“That’s not the impression I’m getting so far.”

“Maybe you’re not very observant,” Dean quips.

That idea seems to amuse Cas, for the corner of his mouth twitches, and – Jesus, Dean really wants to kiss it. Perhaps he shouldn’t try that in the bar – it’s not a gay bar, just a regular Burbank pub – but their glasses are almost empty and it might be time to move this party somewhere more private. He’s about to suggest as much when Cas glances idly over Dean’s shoulder, and his face falls.

“What?” Dean asks. He tries to turn his head to follow Cas’s line of sight, but Cas grabs the side of his face and keeps their eyes locked. His smile is back, easy and relaxed as ever.

“Nothing, just thought I recognized someone. I was wrong. Do you want to get out of here, Dean?”

That is exactly what Dean wants, but the bluntness of the offer and the heat in Cas’s voice take him off-guard. He inhales sharply when Cas leans in, his stubbled cheek grazing feather-soft against Dean’s clean-shaven one.

“I— sure, yeah,” Dean breathes. A rustle of fabric comes from somewhere around their waists, followed by a swift _whoosh_ of something sharp slicing through the air, but Cas’s lips are brushing the underside of Dean’s jaw now, and Dean’s too distracted to give a shit.

“I’ll take care of the tab,” Cas says. There’s a new, urgent undercurrent to his voice that gives Dean pause. It sounds more apprehensive than lust-induced. “Meet me in the car.”

Against his instinct, Dean draws back to catch Cas’s eye. “Come on, you don’t have to pay. Let’s split it, okay?”

“Dean. Go to your car.”

Something’s wrong. Cas drops his hand from Dean’s face and tugs at his arm, pulling him off the stool.

“What—”

“_Now_, Dean. I’ll explain la—”

It all happens simultaneously. Cas pushes Dean to the floor; the mirror above the bar shatters; someone yells “Alive, you moron!”; terrified screams of other bar goers erupt around them; a series of shots echoes so close, Dean’s ears start ringing before he realizes it was Cas who fired them.

“What the fuck are you d—”

Cas grabs his hand and drags him toward the door, swerving around disoriented people clamoring in the same direction. Dean glances backwards, searching for the source of the panic, and notices two men in black suits sprawled across the floor. One of them has a knife sticking out of his thigh, and the other clutches a bleeding arm to his chest.

And then there’s a third one, taking aim with a Sig Sauer.

Two more shots pierce the air, and the man falls backwards, crashing into a table. Cas withdraws his gun and tugs at Dean again, his fingers twisted almost painfully into Dean’s shoulder. Together they stumble onto the sidewalk, where Dean’s car waits for them parked outside the bar.

“Cas, who are these dudes— Cas—”

“Give me the keys,” Cas orders.

In theory, only Nerd Herd employees are allowed to drive company cars, but adhering to those stupid policies about even stupider cars is the last thing on Dean’s mind right now. Without thinking, he fishes the keys out of his pocket and throws them to Cas, who jumps behind the wheel and revs the engine before Dean can blink.

As soon as the passenger door is closed, the tires squeal and the car lurches backwards.

“You’re in reverse!” Dean yells.

“I know!” Cas yells back, and floors it.

The reason becomes clear when Dean looks out the windshield. There’s a black Dodge Journey speeding towards them, way too close to allow any maneuvers. It leaves them no choice but to zig-zag backwards around oncoming cars, followed by the sound of blowing horns and the Dodge hot on their heels.

Dean’s no stranger to reckless driving, but even for him, this is insane. They’re going at least 50 miles an hour, in the wrong direction, dodging cars left and right, and Cas is only barely glancing at his rearview and side mirrors.

“Do you mind telling me what the fuck is going on?” Dean hollers over the sound of the roaring engine and the rush of blood in his ears. In a burst of sudden clarity and common sense Sam would be proud of, he fumbles with his seat belt and snaps it into place. “Cas?”

“Tell me when to turn.”

“What?”

The Dodge is so close now, they’re caught in its headlights, and Dean can make out the stern, grim face of its driver, dark-skinned and sporting a goatee that Dean would find hilarious under different circumstances. The next second, their bumpers crash into each other with enough force to rattle Dean’s teeth. _I’m so glad I didn’t take the Impala, _he thinks, and then amends it in his head: _But Bobby’s gonna take the new bumper off my salary._

“Dean, look behind us and tell me when to turn,” Cas repeats sharply, speeding up to restore some distance between them and the SUV. Pushing thoughts of potential and actual car damage out of his mind and stifling a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat, Dean turns around to search for the nearest side street.

“Okay, uh – left in three seconds?”

“My left or your left?”

“I—”

“Too late.”

Cas takes a sharp turn to Dean’s left, and they tumble down what turns out to be a set of stairs connecting to another road – mercifully, an empty one. There’s no sign of the Dodge following, but Dean doesn’t sigh in relief just yet. His heart thumps wildly against his ribcage, and he’s so high on adrenaline he’s dizzy with it.

“Cas, who the _fuck_ are these people?”

“The NSA.”

“Jesus Christ, are you wanted or something?”

“No. You are.”

Dean gapes at him. “Me? I’m a fucking nobody, why would—”

“This car is too conspicuous,” Cas decides, like Dean hasn’t said anything. “We need to proceed on foot.”

“And leave it here? No way, my boss is gonna kill me.”

“He won’t have to if you don’t move,” Cas says, one foot already out of the car.

Dean’s first instinct is to argue, to explain that all of this is some huge misunderstanding. It must be. The idea that an intelligence agency like the NSA would expedite any resources to kill a nameless, insignificant civilian is absurd.

...and yet, the man driving the Dodge and the men back at the bar didn’t look like random psychos. They didn’t start shooting left and right at the crowd, the way most deranged gunmen do. They went for Dean and Cas, specifically. And when Dean made eye contact with the driver, right before he slammed into their bumper, the intent behind the guy’s eyes was unmistakable. He knew Dean, and he was out to get him.

“Okay, what do we do?” Dean asks, joining Cas on the sidewalk. He throws one last look at the Toyota. He hates that car, but it doesn’t deserve to be abandoned like this.

Instead of answering, Cas pushes Dean towards the entrance of the nearest high-rise building, with at least 30 stories and glass on all sides. Ignoring a distrustful glare from the concierge, they enter the elevator and ride it all the way to the top, which finally gives Dean an opportunity to press Cas for an explanation.

“Why are they after me?” he demands.

Cas catches his eye. His breathing is a little heavy, and he’s still clutching a gun in his hand. Dean tries not to look at it. They stare each other down as the floor numbers on the display above the elevator doors go up: 5th floor, 6th, 7th, 8th...

“How well do you know Michael Milton?” Cas asks at last.

A chill climbs up Dean’s spine. “How do _you_ know him?” he deflects.

“We used to work together.”

“Like, in the same office?”

“No. Like at the CIA.”

It’s the most ridiculous thing Dean’s ever heard.

“The CIA,” he repeats. “Michael is CIA? Wait, _you’re_ CIA?”

“I’m afraid so. Did Michael attempt to contact you? Did he send you something, perhaps?”

The opening words of Purgatory resurface in Dean’s mind. “Yeah,” he whispers. The elevator stops on the top floor and the doors open, but Dean doesn’t move. “He sent me an email.”

Dean’s mind is running a mile a minute, fruitlessly attempting to put the pieces together, and he lets Cas manhandle him out of the elevator, down a corridor and up a set of narrow stairs.

So Michael sends him an email with a boatload of images... some of these images flash in Dean’s mind at the sound of something said on the radio... a guy comes into the Buy More and flirts with Dean... the guy turns out to be a CIA agent who knew Michael... the NSA is involved… No, this makes absolutely zero fucking sense.

Dean shakes himself off, and realizes they’ve made it to the roof. “Why are we here?”

“I made a call earlier. They’re sending a helicopter to evacuate us. Should be here any minute.”

Dean should be surprised by that, but his supply of shock for the day has run dry. Of course the CIA is sending a helicopter to save him from NSA assassins. Apparently that’s his life now.

“I don’t believe this,” Dean says. He glances up at Cas in defiance. “This is a load of bullshit. I know Michael. He’s not a spy.”

“No, he’s not. He’s a rogue operative,” Cas corrects him. “Dean, that email he sent you – what was in it?”

“Purgatory,” Dean answers without thinking. Cas blinks at him. “It’s a game we programmed at Stanford. It was like a – like a riddle, I guess? I solved it, and then there were lots and lots of pictures.”

“Did you look at them?”

“Yeah, I— wait, was I not supposed to do that? Is that why all these black-suited bozos are chasing me?”

Cas looks over Dean’s shoulder, and his stance shifts. “Dean,” he says. His voice is low, and his mouth barely moves as he speaks. “I may need to point my gun at you. Stay calm and trust me.”

These are not the kind of words a guy wants to hear on a first date.

While the men from the bar and the driver of the black SUV rank higher on the list of Things Dean Should Be Worried About, Cas definitely features close behind. The crazy car chase delayed that realization, but it’s now dawning upon Dean in all of its horrific glory. Cas is not a random customer who came into the store to get his phone fixed. Cas is not Dean’s actual date. He’s been lying this whole time, and now has the balls to ask for Dean’s trust like he has any right to it.

Dean’s about to articulate that when slow steps echo from behind, and a harsh voice says, “Hand him over, Novak.”

Dean spins on his heel. The Dodge driver approaches them at an almost leisurely pace, glancing between Dean and Cas with an expression of mild boredom on his face. He’s about Dean’s height, though older by at least a decade. His buzz cut and the way he’s holding himself practically scream ex-military. He’s armed, too, but the gun hangs by his side in a somewhat casual manner. Casual enough to immediately raise Dean’s suspicions.

“He’s not going anywhere with you, Henriksen,” Cas says.

“Of course he is. He belongs to the NSA.”

“Excuse you,” Dean bristles. “Who do you think...” He tapers off, because Cas raises his arm and aims a gun at his head. Henriksen responds by lifting his own gun and pointing it at Cas’s heart.

To be fair, Cas did warn Dean it might come to this, but even a written notice wouldn’t lessen the terror of staring down the barrel of a Glock.

“The CIA gets him first,” Cas says, his gun trained on Dean and his eyes on Henriksen. “Come any closer and I shoot.”

Dean’s heart thunders in his chest. Cas wouldn’t shoot him, would he? Maybe he’s not who he said he was, but he saved Dean’s life back at the bar. Surely he wouldn’t do that just to off him half an hour later in a different location?

“Fine, do it,” Henriksen says easily. “You shoot him, I shoot you, still a win in my book.”

“You’re bluffing. You need him alive.”

“Are you sure?”

At this point, Dean has seen and heard enough. His hands are shaking, still raised in a reflexive “don’t shoot” gesture, and his pulse is racing, but the predominant feeling clawing its way out of his throat is anger. All he wanted was a nice night out, a couple of drinks, and getting laid. He didn’t sign up for any of this shit, for two government schnooks debating whether or not to kill him. He doesn’t care if Michael is CIA or what those images were. He wants to get the fuck out of here and go home.

Castiel and Henriksen are still staring each other down, so Dean takes a tentative step sideways, towards the stairs leading back to the building. Emboldened by being unnoticed, he turns around—

Two voices yell at him not to move, but they seem to come from very far away. A new series of pictures assaults him, bright and fast – faces, documents, maps. He sways and gasps when it’s gone, gaping at the silhouette of the hotel across the street. He’s almost certain it was the view of that hotel that made something click in his brain.

He’s also certain of something else.

“They’re gonna kill him,” he whispers.

“What did you say?”

Dean turns around to stare at Cas with wide eyes. “General Stanfield. You know, the NATO guy? I— he’s in that hotel over there. I just saw…”

“What did you see? Talk to me.” Cas steps forward, eyes earnest but the gun still raised. “Dean. Dean, look at me, not at the gun. How do you know Stanfield is in that hotel?”

“I’ve no idea. I…” Dean hesitates, and then decides to bite the bullet. (So the speak. He prays it remains a metaphor.) It seems like he’s going to have to trust someone, and it definitely isn’t going to be that NSA asshole. “Cas, I think something’s wrong with me. I’m remembering things I shouldn’t know.”

“Like what?”

“Like – okay, so this morning I heard something on the radio, and I remembered that Stanfield had arrived at LAX the day before. Except that I couldn’t remember it, because I’d never known it. And just now, I looked at that hotel and I remembered that the NSA intercepted its blueprints.”

Henriksen redirects his gun from Cas to Dean. “Looks like he was working with Michael after all.”

Like a well-practiced dance, Cas switches his own aim from Dean to Henriksen.

“No, he wasn’t. He opened Michael’s email. Dean,” Cas says, glancing back at him, “those images you saw had data encoded in them. Top secret intelligence compiled by the CIA and the NSA. If you saw them, it means you know all of it.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Dean and Henriksen say in unison.

“Trust me, I’m not. I spent the last twenty-four hours searching for that intel. I cloned your phone when I stopped by your store earlier today, and I broke into your house to inspect your computer. We had a team recover your emails from your provider. The data is no longer there. Michael must have made sure it would be permanently erased upon first viewing.”

Dean makes a stifled noise in the back of his throat. “You broke into my house?” he manages.

“Dean, focus,” Cas says urgently. “You said someone’s going to kill the general?”

“Yeah, they have a bomb.”

“How do we stop it?”

“How the hell should I know? Call Michael, he’s the spy.”

“Michael’s dead.” Cas’s voice wavers, but his gun doesn’t as he lowers it to his side. “Sending you that email was the last thing he did.”

Dean’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach. Michael did him dirty, but there was a time when he was like family to Dean. Not just his fellow student or roommate, but his best friend. As much resentment as Dean still feels at the thought of him, the news of his death strikes hard.

“That’s very touching and all,” Henriksen drawls, “but in case you two forgot, we’ve got a bomb to defuse.”

“We?”

Henriksen narrows his eyes, then uncocks his gun. “Yes, Mr. Winchester, we. We’re the good guys who defuse bombs, and apparently _you_ have a supercomputer in your head that’s going to tell us how.”

Dean takes a step back. “I can’t. Don’t you guys have a – a bomb disposal squad or something?”

“Dean,” Cas pleads. He starts to walk towards him, but stops and raises his hand in a placating gesture when Dean flinches. “Even if they make it in time, we don’t know where the bomb is hidden. I understand that as a civilian, you’re not used to this, but like it or not, you have the knowledge that might be crucial to stopping an assassination attempt. Help us, please. People are going to die if you don’t.”

There’s no way Dean can defuse a real, actual _bomb_. He’s a computer nerd, not fucking MacGyver. He has nothing going for him.

Except the super-secret database in his noggin.

He inhales through his nose, then releases his breath in a whoosh. This is going to be the craziest thing he’s ever done, or will ever do.

“Alright, Cas. But if we die, I’m gonna kill you.”

The three of them are already in the elevator by the time the CIA’s rescue chopper begins its slow descent onto the now empty roof.

* * *

There is something to be said for adrenaline and its wonders.

For one, it’s relentless. It first hit when the NSA goons attacked them back at the bar, and Dean has been riding the wave ever since, through the car chase and the confrontation on the roof. His brain should be completely maxed out on it by now, yet when he barges into the hotel lobby with Castiel and Henriksen in tow, a new rush of it floods his veins. He has no idea why he agreed to this or how to access the database stuck in his head and search it for answers, but his fight-or-flight response has kicked in, and settled on fight.

He’s doing this.

“Is there enough time to evacuate the building?” Cas asks, glancing at the people milling around the lobby.

“No, according to the schedule the general’s already on stage,” Dean says, too wired to wonder how he knows this. “We gotta – just – follow me,” he adds, and runs.

The hotel blueprints he remembered earlier are clear like a map in his head, leading him easily up the stairs and towards a large conference room on the second floor. Castiel and Henriksen flash their badges to the security guards stationed outside, and then they’re in, greeted by an audience of at least a few dozen people and an elderly man in a dove gray uniform, standing on a podium front and center.

Nobody pays them any mind. In fact, nobody seems to notice their arrival at all. The audience are seated at round tables scattered around the room, and they’re all focused either on the stage or the plates set in front of them. Waiters flit around here and there, refilling glasses with champagne that likely costs more than Dean’s monthly salary. From military top brass to wait staff, no one’s aware of imminent danger.

“Dean, where is it?” Cas whispers. “Where’s the bomb?”

When the knowledge doesn’t immediately come to him, Dean can feel himself beginning to panic. He scans the room, eyes frantic, unsure what he’s even looking for. What little he knows about explosive devices comes from action movies, and he doubts it has much to do with reality. Is the bomb small enough to be hidden under somebody’s chair? One of the tables? Or is it planted right under the podium?

“I don’t know,” he says miserably, though his eyes keep moving, taking stock of his surroundings. If he only knew where to look to trigger one of those flashes, if only there was something—

And then it comes, as unexpected as the previous ones.

“It’s there,” he says, pointing at a trolley standing between the tables. There’s a large, stainless steel cloche on it, covering what should be a platter of gourmet food, but what Dean’s now certain has been swapped for enough explosives to blow this whole joint sky-high.

He’s proven right when Cas lifts the cloche and reveals a laptop connected to a dizzying amount of C4, packaged into rectangular demolition blocks.

“Oh God,” Dean says. “It’s real. It’s a real bomb.”

“Get it together, Winchester,” Henriksen snaps while Castiel opens the laptop. The screen displays a countdown clock like something out of a bad spy movie, red numbers dropping at a steady, but relentless pace.

“We have less than three minutes,” Cas says. If Dean weren’t currently trying to withhold a massive freak-out, he would marvel at how steady his voice sounds. He must have done this before.

“Disconnect the laptop?” Henriksen suggests.

“Auto-trigger. The cables?”

“Definitely a trap.”

“Dean? Ideas?”

Dean stares at the bomb and the laptop until his eyes begin to water, but no flashes are forthcoming. Either the database in his head doesn’t include any handy how-to manuals on bomb disposal, or he can’t access it on cue. Whichever it is, they’re screwed.

“I’m sorry. I got nothing.”

The only giveaway of Castiel’s emotions is a tick of his jaw. “Alright then. Get out of here while Henriksen and I deal with it.”

Dean doesn’t move. “What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know yet, but you can’t be here in case we fail. You’re way too valuable.”

“I can’t believe I’m about to say it, but he’s right. Move it,” Henriksen orders, pushing Dean out of the way and kneeling next to the trolley to further inspect the wires. Dean stares at them too, though without any hope of flashing. There are six of them, all connecting to the laptop.

A laptop with a familiar, slate-gray frame.

“Dean,” Castiel prompts, waving him away. “You need to be as far away from here as possible.”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, but his feet remain glued to the floor. On some level, he knows there’s nothing more he can do. He should join the last wave of people fleeing the room (and when did _that_ exodus happen) while he still has a chance of making it out with all four limbs intact. Just like Cas said, Dean’s a civilian, and he would do well to leave this whole mess to actual government agents.

He should run.

“It’s a Prism Express,” he mumbles to himself. The countdown shows one minute thirty-four seconds until detonation.

“What?” Henriksen barks, just as Castiel says, “Dean, go.”

“We sell those at the Buy More.”

An idea begins to form in Dean’s mind. It’s crude, preposterous, and it might not work, but Dean has decided – to his own great astonishment – that he won’t hightail it out of here like a coward. He doesn’t have qualms about leaving Castiel and Henriksen, who understand the risk, but there must be other people around, people who haven’t made it out of the hotel yet or maybe don’t even know they should. The staff, the guests on upper floors. If the whole building collapses, there are bound to be many casualties.

“Let me try,” he says, and elbows his way past Castiel and Henriksen to get to the laptop’s keyboard.

“This isn’t a video game, asshat,” Henriksen growls.

“Dean, you have invaluable intelligence in your brain. You can’t die here.”

“No one’s dying, Cas,” Dean says distractedly, clicking on the browser icon. When a Google home page appears, he types in “Belladonna”.

Castiel frowns. “How is researching a poisonous plant going to help us?”

“This idiot is searching for porn,” Henriksen says, fuming.

Dean’s mouth ticks up. “I see you know your porn stars. But no, it’s a virus. It can override the programming. At least I hope so.” He can feel Cas and Henriksen exchange a look behind his back, but there’s no time for second guessing. Either he’s right, or they’re all dead anyway. “Just trust me. Both of you.”

Catching Cas’s eye in the reflection of the laptop screen, Dean clicks on the link. The page loads, showering them with pornographic images Dean’s all too familiar with. Henriksen scoffs, then mutters, “Not the worst thing to see right before you die, I guess.”

“Hello, sexy,” Belladonna’s tinny voice says. “Hello— hello sss…. he-hellooo….”

The laptop makes a sizzling noise and shuts off.

The three of them stare at it, frozen, for five long seconds.

“You did it,” Cas breathes, bewildered.

“I did it,” Dean echoes, and lets out a delirious laugh. “I did it. Oh my fucking God,” he says, and collapses back onto the carpeted floor, where he plans to stay as long as it takes for his heart to calm down.

* * *

It takes Dean’s frazzled brain almost the entire walk back to his abandoned Toyota to realize that they’re not going to let him go. Castiel and Henriksen are trailing behind him, speaking in hushed tones that grow louder as the conversation turns into an argument, but Dean barely listens. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, he’s light-headed and feels a sudden urge to pass out on the nearest flat surface.

“…not a good idea,” Castiel is saying. “We don’t know what triggers the memories.”

“We can figure that out by bringing him in and letting our experts have a go at him.”

“You want to lock him up?”

“You want to let him go?”

“Well, what about his family? His brother?”

That instantly gets Dean’s attention. “What about him?” he demands, halting mid-step so that Cas almost walks into him. “What the hell does he have to do with all this?”

“Nothing yet. Did you tell him about the email and the flashes? Did you tell anyone?”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s good,” Cas says, nodding. His unflappability makes Dean’s blood boil.

“Oh, is it?”

“Yes. Any civilian who knows about you would be forced to go into witness protection.”

Dean stares at Cas, then at Henriksen. They both look dead serious.

“That sounds like overkill,” he protests.

“Dean, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.”

“No, I do. For some reason, Michael decided to fuck up my life yet again, and now I’m a vessel for government intelligence. Fine. But my family is not a part of this. I swear I didn’t tell them anything, so do whatever you need to do with me, but leave them the fuck alone.”

Though his words come out sharp and biting, Dean doesn’t feel all that confident. He’s standing in front of two special agents of the government of the United States of America, both of them armed and dangerous. Neither of them cares about the wellbeing of Dean’s loved ones – hell, they don’t even care about Dean’s. The only thing they’re here to protect is the data embedded in Dean’s head.

“I still vote we dump him in a padded cell,” Henriksen says, unperturbed. “If he wants to protect his family so much, that’s the best way to do it, anyway.”

Dean slumps against the Toyota. That’s it, then. His shitty life has run its shitty course. He’s going to spend the rest of his days locked up in some top-secret CIA facility, getting poked and prodded until he either croaks or goes insane.

Maybe they’ll let him say goodbye to Sammy, at least.

“No.”

When Dean looks up, Castiel’s shoulders are squared in determination.

“No,” Cas repeats. “He helped us find a bomb, Henriksen. A bomb we didn’t even know we were supposed to be looking for. He saved a NATO general’s life, and that’s just within a day of acquiring the data.” Cas’s eyes slide from Henriksen to Dean, scrutinizing. “I think he could help us stop something bigger, if given a chance.”

Treacherous hope flares up in Dean’s chest. If Cas is on his side – if he convinces his bosses, or whoever it is he answers to, that Dean should be allowed to stay in Burbank…

“Could’ve been a fluke,” Henriksen says.

“Or the beginning of a pattern.”

“Jesus, let me live,” Henriksen grunts. “Fine. You call your supervisor, I call mine. You,” he adds, jabbing a finger at Dean. “Go home and don’t do anything stupid. Don’t try to run. Don’t talk to anyone about what happened here. Got it?”

“Who would believe me,” Dean says glumly.

“That’s the spirit,” Henriksen says, then thumps him on the back before disappearing down the poorly lit street, leaving the two of them alone.

Silence falls as Henriksen’s footsteps fade in the distance. It’s late and there’s no one around, no cars or pedestrians. Dean can just about make out the distant noises of the main road, but here, the only vehicle is the Toyota still parked at the curb, and the only presence himself and his date-turned-CIA agent.

Correction: a CIA agent who was never his date to begin with.

“So, what about you?” he asks, staring down at his shoes. Only now does he notice that the asphalt beneath his feet is slightly wet, glistening under the small patches of light coming from the streetlamps. It must have rained while they were inside the hotel defusing the bomb.

Jesus Christ. How is that a sentence that describes Dean’s life.

“What about me?” Cas asks.

“Why aren’t you leaving? I thought you had a call to make. Plead my case or whatever.”

A thoughtful humming noise comes from alarmingly close. Dean keeps staring at his boots.

“It can wait,” Castiel says. His shoulder brushes Dean’s jacket as he leans against the car. Dean can feel his eyes on the side of his face, but he resolutely avoids looking up. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay first.”

A mirthless laugh bubbles out of Dean. “Okay? I have a fucking supercomputer in my head.”

“The Intersect.”

“What?”

“The computer. It’s called the Intersect.”

If Dean were looking for signs of goodwill on Cas’s part, sharing information like that – undoubtedly classified – could be considered as one. Of course, Dean isn’t looking.

“Its creation was a joint effort between the CIA and the NSA, focused on exchanging intelligence between the two agencies,” Castiel continues, in a tone that’s almost conversational. “I don’t know what you see when you have these flashes, Dean, but the Intersect contains an unfathomable amount of data. Information on terrorist groups, arms dealers, personal files of the most wanted war criminals, their known locations, aliases… everything. You know everything.”

Dean slides his palms down his thighs and tries to control his breathing. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know.”

“I have no idea why Michael sent this – this Intersect to me.”

“Neither do I,” Castiel says gently. There’s something about his matter-of-fact, no-nonsense approach that Dean finds comforting. He tilts his head to the side and finally allows himself to catch Cas’s eye. To his surprise, Castiel smiles at him and says, “You did really well tonight.”

“I didn’t get blown up, so that’s a plus,” Dean mumbles. “So, impromptu bomb disposal… that a regular evening for you?”

“Not as regular as you might think.”

“Only every second night, huh?”

“Before this goes any further,” Castiel says, a hint of amusement in his voice, “I would advise you to discard any clichés about the world of espionage that Hollywood led you to believe.”

“You’re about to ruin it for me, aren’t you,” Dean sighs.

“If you treat James Bond movies as gospel, you deserve it.”

Dean laughs, and the corner of Castiel’s mouth lifts ever so slightly. For a brief moment, it’s like the past hour didn’t happen; like they’re still on the world’s most normal date, flirting and making each other laugh.

The thought wipes the smile right off Dean’s face.

“It was all a job,” he says flatly. “You coming to the Buy More, asking for my number, the bar – you were on a job this entire time.”

Castiel doesn’t look contrite, and he doesn’t deny it. “Yes,” he says simply.

Dean stares at him, and wonders how he could ever think otherwise. What screw went loose in his head to make him believe that a guy like Cas would look at him and think: _This man makes 10 bucks an hour in an electronics store. I’m gonna ask him out._

“Why didn’t they send a girl?” Dean hears himself say. It’s a stupid question, but now that he’s asked it, he wants to hear the answer.

“The CIA doesn’t know or care about your sexual orientation, if that’s what you mean. I was only told to get close to you. I didn’t have a plan when I walked into the store, but seeing your body language, I decided that playing up a romantic interest would be the most efficient way to ingratiate myself with you.”

Dean hopes the darkness around them conceals any signs of redness creeping up his cheeks. It’s pathetic. _He_ is pathetic. He was checking Cas out so blatantly that he gave him a perfect opening. And didn’t Charlie say Cas had been watching Dean closely the entire time he was at the Nerd Herd counter? Well, mystery solved: he was studying his target. Nothing more.

“Well, you did great,” Dean says, pushing himself off of the car. “Fooled me, at least. Are you even into dudes?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

It sounds like a polite “no”, and Dean feels sick. He was so certain it was mutual, with the way Cas was looking at him and touching him and leaning so close—

Turns out, he’s just that good at his job.

“Give me back my keys,” he demands. Wordlessly, Castiel reaches into his pocket and throws them at Dean, his expression inscrutable.

“I’ll be in touch,” Cas says; a promise, or maybe a threat.

Dean drives away, and doesn’t feel at all bad about not offering Cas a lift.

* * *

By the grace of some unspecified higher power, Sam and Sarah have already retired for the night by the time Dean makes it home, so he doesn’t have to explain how his date went or why his shirt is drenched in sweat as if he ran a marathon in it. He resolves not to turn on the lights and ends up stumbling through the dark apartment, trying to make as little noise as possible. If he remembers right, Sarah has an early shift in the morning. The last thing he wants is to fuck up her much needed sleep.

Since their bathroom pipes tend to squeak like they’re in dire need of an exorcist, he opts out of taking a shower and settles for a quick, perfunctory wash over the sink before slipping into a clean t-shirt. Even with the moon peeking through the window as his only source of light, he takes a moment to study his own face in the bathroom mirror. He doesn’t look as rattled as he should, all things considered. He looks like he always does.

His brow furrows. He turned from a regular guy to an intelligence asset practically overnight. He was manipulated and chased and shot at, he found out his old college roommate was dead, hell, he was mere seconds away from being sent home in a fucking ashtray. It would be enough to make anyone flip their lid. So why doesn’t it show on his face? Why does he look so _normal_?

He averts his eyes and avoids catching any glimpse of himself again while brushing his teeth.

Sleep doesn’t come for a long time after he turns in. From the relative safety of his own bed and knowing what he knows now, he finally has a chance to dissect the evening’s events and try to make sense of them. He thinks back to the bar and how he let Cas sweet-talk him; how Cas flung knives with his lips against Dean’s jaw and shot a guy point-blank; how he swerved the Toyota left and right down the street, as if he’d done it a dozen times before; how he didn’t hesitate one second to aim a gun at Dean.

Several conclusions make themselves known. One, Castiel has no real interest in him and is way out of his league. Two, Castiel is a trained assassin (do CIA agents have a license to kill? He’ll google that later) and Dean should stay away from him. Three, Dean had his first proper brush with death today, and it looks like it’s not going to be his last. Four, for some reason, he’s less scared than the circumstances dictate.

_I should be more afraid_, he thinks. Whether they ship him off to some underground bunker or let him stay in Burbank, his days as an ordinary IT guy are over, that much is clear. If the first twenty-four hours involved a car chase, a crippled version of a Mexican standoff, and a near-explosion, there’s no reason to believe the following will be any less exciting.

He’s drifting on the edge of consciousness when his phone dings with a new text message.

**<<< Cas**

We have green light. You don’t have to leave your family, but you must tell them nothing to keep them safe. I will stop at the Buy More tomorrow with more details.

The relief that washes over Dean is so overwhelming that a breathless laugh catches in his throat. He doesn’t send a text back; instead, he burrows his head into the pillow and lets sleep pull him under.


	2. The Taco Night

Dean doesn’t have to wait long. The store opens at 10:00 a.m., and Castiel walks in at 10:08, wearing a light blue polo t-shirt and a pleasant, innocent expression of someone who’s never come within twenty feet of a firearm.

“Hello, Dean,” he says sweetly as he stops at the Nerd Herd desk. “Do you have a moment?”

Ignoring Charlie almost vibrating with curiosity next to him, Dean gives a curt nod and walks out from behind the counter, waving Cas towards an empty aisle with kitchen appliances. No one comes in this early to buy a toaster oven; they should be fine.

“So what’s the 411?” he asks after throwing a cursory glance up and down the aisle, just to be on the safe side.

“I managed to convince director Nicholson that you’ll be more useful out in the field than locked in a lab. For the time being, you can continue living and working here.”

The whole “useful” bit doesn’t sit well with Dean, but he lets it slide in favor of asking, “Who’s director Nicholson?”

“Naomi Nicholson is in charge of the Intersect project. I expect she might want to brief you personally at some point, but for now, you must settle for me as an intermediary. Sorry,” he adds, not sounding sorry at all. “Bottom line is that you’re allowed to carry on with your life as long as you work with us. Myself and agent Henriksen will keep an eye on you as your handlers.”

“Wait, so you’re moving in here?”

“I already have. I also work across the street from you. It’s my first day, actually.”

“_What_?”

Castiel taps his chest, and Dean notices that the polo t-shirt he’s wearing has a logo on it: an ice cream cone with the words _Il Cono_ wrapped around its top half. Dean knows that name, and that logo; he sees it every day when he rolls into their mall’s parking lot.

“You work at the ice cream parlor?”

“Yes. We’re also going to need a cover story for how often we’re going to be seeing each other. Have you told anyone about our date?”

“You mean our non-date?” Dean says, painfully aware how petulant he sounds. “Yeah, I told Sarah. And Charlie knows, obviously, since she was there when we exchanged numbers.”

Castiel nods. “All right. In that case, I propose we stick to the established narrative.”

Dean’s jaw drops. “You mean—”

“I mean we pretend to date, yes.”

It’s a horrible idea. Stupid, outrageous, potentially disastrous. Fake dating is going to involve fake kissing, fake hand-holding, and worst of all, lying to his family and friends. It’s that last thought that Dean likes the least of all. Sam and Sarah are going to be stoked as hell, and it’s all going to be a huge lie.

“Is there a problem?” Castiel asks, raising one eyebrow at Dean’s stunned silence.

“I— do I have a choice?”

“Of course you do. You can play along, or you can be put on the next plane to Washington.”

“Then there’s no problem,” Dean says stiffly. If that’s what his new situation requires, then he’s going to adapt, and that’s the end of it.

“Good,” Castiel says, glancing at something over Dean’s shoulder. “Well, that’s it from me, at least for now. Come over to Il Cono during lunch for a briefing, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Great. Now kiss me goodbye.”

Dean does the mental equivalent of your foot missing a step while you’re going down the stairs. Admittedly, the request makes sense – as far as the rest of the world is concerned, they went on a successful date yesterday, and now Cas is visiting him at work – but it takes Dean a hot second to compose himself. A second too long, apparently, because Cas takes initiative and plants a soft peck on Dean’s lips before vanishing down the aisle.

Dazed, Dean watches him go, his fingertips brushing along the seam of his mouth. _It’s not real_, he reminds himself.

“You’re at work, son, keep it PG,” a gruff voice says somewhere to Dean’s right. “If you’re done canoodling with your new boyfriend, I have a job for you.”

“I’m not canoodling,” Dean mutters, quickly lowering his hand and turning around. Bobby glowers at him, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Although the word “favoritism” doesn’t exist in Bobby’s vocabulary, it’s no secret to anyone that Dean occupies a special place in his shriveled, whiskey-soaked heart. Most people assume it’s because Dean is hands down his best employee – smart, great with customers, ridiculously overqualified (not on paper, but still). The truth is that when they first met, Dean was at one of the lowest points of his life, having just returned home with his dreams shattered and his reputation in tatters, and it was Bobby who grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him back to his feet. It’s been six years, but neither of them has forgotten that.

“We have a new team member,” Bobby says. “I need you to give him a quick sales training before we let him loose on the customers. Think you can handle that, Don Juan, or is your mind across the street with the ice cream guy?”

Dean quashes the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m on it,” he promises. Sales training is a simple, straightforward affair. He expects they’ll be done by lunch time.

What he doesn’t expect is for the new employee to have a familiar face and a brand new name tag that says “Victor”.

“What the fuck,” Dean says, staring at the man who tried to kill him yesterday.

“Trust me, I’m as excited about this as you are,” Henriksen assures him. “So how about that training, huh?” He grabs a barcode scanner from under the counter and points it at Dean. “Should be easy. Just like a gun, right?”

* * *

“The new guy is kinda weird, isn’t he?” Charlie comments off-handedly, unfolding her Saran wrap and sinking her teeth into a deliciously-looking chicken sandwich. The food Charlie brings for lunch is always homemade and mouth-watering, and on a regular day, Dean would spend his break trying to goad her into letting him have a bite, be it by flattery or bribery. Today, he barely spares it a glance.

“What do you mean?” he asks, distractedly tapping his finger against his thigh.

“I mean, he’s got a creepy vibe about him. Like he’s got a dark past or something.”

_Past, present, and future_, Dean thinks, but says, “You watch too many movies, Charlie.”

Charlie rolls her eyes and swallows down a bite of her sandwich. “One, there’s no such thing as too many movies. Two, if you don’t like talking about this Henriksen character, we can talk about someone else. Maybe, oh, I don’t know… your new _boyfriend_?

“Charlie,” Dean sighs, but she quells his protest with one look.

“I hope you didn’t expect me to let you off the hook. Tell. Me. Everything.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Dean says, a lame evasion even by his own standards.

“Dean, he came to visit you at work a day after your first date. How is that not a big deal? He must really be into you.”

_Yeah, he must_, Dean thinks, staring despondently at a spot on the wall somewhere above Charlie’s head. This time yesterday, he was sitting at the same table, in the same chair, texting back and forth with a cute (scratch that; ruggedly handsome) guy who gave him his number. Now, the guy in question is his boyfriend, and Dean can’t muster up a single ounce of excitement about the fact, because it’s all a sham.

“He did come to see me at work, and you know what, Charlie? I think I’m gonna pay him a visit in return,” he says, standing up. The longer this conversation goes on, the more Dean has to lie, so it’s best to cut it short. Besides, if Dean is late for his first briefing, Cas might pull out his fingernails or something. Or waterboard him – isn’t that what the CIA does?

“If he gives you ice cream on the house, bring some for me too.”

Dean doubts he’s going to get any free ice cream out of this, but looking down at Charlie’s knowing smile, he decides he’s going to pay for it if necessary. Even if it’s a way for Dean to appease his conscience, Charlie Bradbury is going to get her ice cream.

As Dean walks across the parking lot to Il Cono, he wonders how come he’s never set foot there before. He passes it every day on his way to and from work, driving past the white-and-blue awning and a bunch of small tables set on the sidewalk. The place is rarely crowded, and as far as Dean can tell, most of its clientele consists of bored teenagers who spend their afternoons hanging out at the shopping mall. If it was a burger joint, or at least a Subway, Dean would have scoped it out by now, but an ice cream parlor doesn’t offer much in terms of lunch foods. Cas couldn’t have picked a stupider cover.

The inside of Il Cono turns out to be minimalist and clean, with white and light blue as dominant colors. When Dean takes a look around, he notices with some surprise that he’s not the only customer. Two young women are peering through the glass of the display case, hemming and hawing as they try to decide between different ice cream flavors. Cas stands behind the counter with a stainless steel scoop at the ready and an expression of mild annoyance that suggests the women are taking a long time to make up their mind. He nods at Dean when he sees him enter, and says, “I’ll be right with you.”

“I’ll have two scoops,” announces the brunette in a mini-skirt. “Pistachio and lemon.”

“Just one vanilla scoop for me,” sighs the blonde with glasses. “Gotta watch my weight.”

“Would you like a cone or a cup?”

Both women settle for cones, and Dean nods a silent approval. Honestly, why would anyone choose a container that you can’t eat over one you can?

Castiel gets to work, and since Dean has nothing better to do, he ends up watching him. Despite the chill coming from the freezers, Dean’s face grows hot as he studies the flexing of Cas’s arm and the way he effortlessly sinks the scoop into the frozen ice cream mass. The movement pulls the short sleeve of Cas’s polo t-shirt so taut that Dean wouldn’t be surprised to see it tear in half.

He turns away under the guise of glancing through the store front, and hopes his cheeks return to their normal shade before he has to face Cas. The women pay and leave, and when the door closes behind them, the parlor falls silent. Dean’s not sure what the procedure is – should they kiss hello on an off-chance that someone is watching? There’s no one around, but given everything that happened yesterday, he wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s being spied on by some ninja assassins.

Cas answers his unuttered question by sitting down at one of the empty tables and gesturing for Dean to do the same. No kiss, then. Noted.

“How’s your first day going?” Dean asks, aiming for cheerful. “Sick of customer service yet?”

“It’s not my first cover of this sort.”

“I’m gonna take that as a yes.”

Cas’s mouth upticks in an almost-smile. He leans across the table, hands folded together on top of it, and Dean notices a black, expensive-looking watch on his left wrist.

“We have two matters to discuss, Dean. First: have you experienced any new flashes?”

Dean shakes his head. He sat on pins and needles the entire car ride to the Buy More today, expecting something on the radio to cause that weird flashing sensation again, but he made it through the entire news report without as much as an eye twitch.

“That’s good,” Cas nods. “It means we don’t need to postpone the meeting. If you’re amenable to it, of course.”

“What meeting,” Dean says flatly.

“We have arranged for Doctor Bevell, one of our top scientists, to fly to L.A. tonight. She was one of the people involved in the Intersect project, and we’re hoping she might be able to extract those images from you.”

A glimmer of hope sparks in Dean’s chest. Granted, the idea of some CIA chick playing Operation on his brain holds little appeal, but if it’s the only way to free him of this spy nonsense, then he’ll suck it up and let them slice into his mushy parts without a word of complaint. Well, maybe a word or two of complaint. Or four.

“Will it involve needles?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Cause that’s my hard limit.”

“_Dean_,” Castiel huffs. “Whatever it involves, it’s a means to an end. Do you want that computer out of your head or not?”

“Fine, fine. Call the doctor, tell her I’m in.”

Dean’s agreement has a curious effect on Cas. Impatience drains from his eyes, his posture relaxes, and he almost smiles. It’s like he expected resistance, and was relieved to have avoided a fight.

“I’ll text you the details of the meeting later,” he says, “but make sure you’re free this evening.”

“My social calendar is wide open.” Some synapse in his brain fires wrong, and Dean adds, “Unless you want to go on a second fake date.”

Castiel doesn’t even blink. “That would be a very good cover for tonight, actually. Let’s stick with that.”

Dean wants to slap himself. “Second fake date”, really? Jesus Christ, what a dumb thing to say. He watches Cas stand up and walk back towards the counter, a clear sign that the briefing’s over and Dean should make himself scarce. And he will, but he has an errand to run first.

“So tell me, ice cream man,” he says, trailing after Cas to the front of the display case, “which flavors are the best?”

Cas throws him a quizzical look. “I have no idea, Dean. I haven’t tried any of them.”

“You haven’t— Cas, if you’re about to tell me you don’t like ice cream, we need to fake break up.”

“I’m indifferent towards ice cream.”

That’s a travesty if Dean’s ever heard one. He fishes his wallet out of his pocket and drops a ten dollar bill on the counter. “Two small cones, please, my good sir.”

“What are you doing?”

“Ordering ice cream.”

Cas eyes him with distrust, but he grabs his scoop and a fresh cone. “What flavors would you like?” he asks in a deadpan voice that sounds nothing like the one he used with the customers earlier.

“Strawberry and chocolate, I think. And for the other cone, salted caramel and raspberry.”

Cas scoops the ice cream in silence, handing Dean the first, then the second cone, his cold fingers brushing Dean’s in the process. “Who are they for?” he asks, like he expects Dean to wolf down both.

“One’s for Charlie,” Dean says, raising the strawberry chocolate. “She’s under the impression that my new boyfriend will shower me with free ice cream, so I don’t wanna disappoint.”

“Keeping up appearances. That’s smart.”

Dean ignores the remark, and offers the second cone to Cas.

“Dean, no— you paid for this.”

“My chances of dying young have increased dramatically since yesterday, so I figure there’s no point in saving money for retirement. Take the ice cream, Cas.”

Slowly, Castiel reaches out and relieves Dean of the cone. The raspberry scoop has begun melting already, a thin pink streak running down the side of the cone, and Cas licks it off before it can travel farther down. Frowning, he turns the cone around, inspecting it for any other leakages. There are none, but he swipes his tongue along the rim of the cone all the same.

“This isn’t half bad,” he muses, oblivious to the fact that three feet away, Dean is having a bigger meltdown than the ice cream.

“Told ya,” Dean says weakly.

Humming, Castiel eats his way through the raspberry scoop to the salted caramel underneath. It couldn’t be clearer that he likes it, and Dean should be smug about it. He should gloat and tease and say “Indifferent, huh?”, but all he can do is stare. Charlie’s ice cream starts running down his fingers, and still Dean’s feet won’t unstick from the floor.

“Dean?”

Too late, Dean realizes that while he’s been staring at Cas’s mouth, Cas has been staring at him. “Huh?”

“What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”

“Lemon,” Dean answers without thinking.

Cas puts his half-finished ice cream into a cone holder sitting on top of the counter, then prepares a fresh cone with one scoop of lemon ice cream. Leaning across the display case, he hands it to Dean, and says, “On the house.”

* * *

All in all, the appointment with Doctor Bevell is rather anticlimactic. As instructed, Dean and Henriksen stay at the Buy More after closing time under the pretense of finishing the sales training, and spend some time setting up the home theater room. Once the curtains are drawn tightly, and Dean settled comfortably on the couch in front of the massive 50-inch TV with a headset, Henriksen barks at him to not move, not say anything that could give away his identity, and cooperate.

Doctor Bevell will only know Dean as Patient X, and they cannot see each other for the sake of Dean’s safety. The doctor’s voice sounds sharp and business-like in Dean’s headset while she explains what she wants from him. It’s straightforward enough: a series of images are displayed on the screen in front of Dean, and all he needs to do is say what they are. Weird, Dean thinks, but he’ll take that over needles and probing any day.

The pictures are seemingly random, mostly showing people, animals or buildings. However, every third or fourth picture triggers a memory, prompting Dean to proclaim something like “Delta Airlines flight number 593 was diverted from Miami to New York after a Russian diplomat was poisoned onboard” before saying “Oh, that’s just a dolphin.” The whole experiment lasts about twenty minutes, by the end of which Dean is mildly bored and developing a headache.

“That’s enough, thank you,” says Doctor Bevell’s voice in Dean’s ear. A few minutes later Castiel’s head pops through the curtains, and he gives Dean an encouraging smile.

“You did well. Doctor Bevell thinks she’ll be able to help you.”

Dean didn’t really do anything aside from getting a headache, but he keeps that to himself. “So when are we gonna do it?” he asks instead. The faster they get this over with, the better. “Do I need to go to a hospital or something?”

“She said she needs a few days for the preparations. We’ll let you know.”

“You do realize how creepy that sounds, right?”

“Go home to your family, Dean. It will be over soon,” Castiel says, and disappears.

So Dean closes up the store and drives home, where he hopes to grab a beer from the fridge, maybe play some Call of Duty, and go to sleep. That’s what most of his weekday evenings look like, and with the Intersect set to be gone soon, there’s no reason he can’t return to that comfortable routine right away.

“Why am I the last person in Burbank to know you’re dating someone?”

Except that.

Stopping halfway through the hallway, Dean turns around to see Sam sprawled on the couch, his mouth twisted into an unhappy line. Sometimes Dean wonders why the universe decided to make Sam the younger brother. He can certainly act like a disappointed parent who’s got years of life experience and wisdom to hold over Dean’s head.

“Heya, Sammy.”

Sam huffs and hauls himself into a sitting position. There’s an empty mug and a tablet on the coffee table next to him, a telltale sign he’s been tackling some work stuff after hours.

“Sarah, Charlie, Bobby – everyone knows,” Sam accuses.

“How do _you _know that _they _know?” Dean asks. Sarah wouldn’t have spilled the beans, not after she promised, and as far as Dean knows, Sam had no reason to speak to Charlie or Bobby today.

“I ran into Andy at the grocery store. Apparently, the entire Buy More personnel saw you smooching some guy this morning.”

Dean groans. First canoodling, then smooching – why are people in Dean’s life so determined to use the creepiest phrases possible to describe an innocent kiss? More importantly, “Can everyone just chill about my love life?”

“I can’t be chill about something you hide from me. Look, Dean, I don’t need the details, okay? I just…”

Something in Sam’s tone makes Dean come closer and fall onto the couch, settling against the pillows. He’s not really in the mood for a serious talk, but he doesn’t want Sam to think he’s been sneaking around because he doesn’t trust him, or doesn’t want to confide in him.

“You just what?”

“I just hate to be the last one to find out. And I’m really happy for you.”

Dean gasps in surprise when Sam thumps him on the back, his frown smoothing out into a smile.

“So what’s his name?”

Dean isn’t sure what makes him play along. The Intersect is the only reason Castiel entered Dean’s life, and once it’s gone, both him and Henriksen will pack up their bags and move somewhere else on new assignments. They have a few days together, maybe weeks, tops. There’s no point in getting Sam’s hopes up and leading him to believe that this relationship has any future.

And yet, that’s exactly what Dean does. He takes perverse pleasure in telling Sam a story he wishes were true. He tells him his boyfriend’s name is Cas, or Castiel, and that he’s new in town. That he’s good-looking and snarky and they’ve been on two dates so far, both awesome. That Cas works at Il Cono and that Sam _wishes _he could date a person with unlimited access to ice cream. He talks and talks to make Sam happy, and makes himself miserable in the process.

All those lies he’s telling sound so enticing.

“How about you bring him over for dinner tomorrow?” Sam suggests once Dean is done gushing about the perks of Cas working just across the street from him. “An informal get-together, nothing fancy,” he adds, rolling his eyes at the look of distress on Dean’s face.

“Sammy, I’ve known this guy for two days. Isn’t it a little early for meeting the family?”

“6 o’clock. I’ll make chicken risotto.”

“Are you insane? Your chicken risotto is a health hazard. At least ask Sarah to make her chorizo tacos.”

Sam grins, and Dean realizes he’s as good as said yes.

* * *

Henriksen is acting weird.

Dean doesn’t notice at first, busy taking phone calls at the Nerd Herd helpdesk and then breaking up an argument between Charlie and Andy, who both claim they can assemble a computer from scratch faster than the other. Dean has no intention of offering his opinion on the matter – not only because he doesn’t want to take sides, but because he genuinely doesn’t know – and comes up with an easy way to resolve the issue. Charlie and Andy seem if not appeased, then at least captivated by the idea of putting their skills to the test in a timed competition. They disappear out back into one of the storage rooms, surrounded by a circle of admirers excited to witness a computer face-off. Dean would love to join them, actually, but somebody needs to stay behind and man the helpdesk. The woes of being a supervisor.

The sudden quiet that falls over the mostly empty store draws Dean’s attention to the angry huffs coming from the refrigerator aisle. Curious, he follows the sound only to find Henriksen staring out the store window, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression wary.

“Hey, Shifty, what’s going on?”

Henriksen turns around and Dean immediately regrets the nickname. The dude looks ready for murder.

“Have you heard from Novak today?”

Gazing back through the window, Dean realizes what Henriksen has been eyeing with such vehemence is the ice cream parlor.

“No, haven’t heard from him since yesterday. Why? Something wrong?”

“I don’t want you meeting with him in private.”

Dean blanches. “Why the hell not?”

“Because I said so.”

The only answer Dean can come up with is, “That’s gonna clash with our cover.”

“Forget the cover,” Henriksen snaps. “From now on, you keep him at a distance, understood?”

“But – no, that doesn’t work for me. I’m supposed to bring him to dinner with my brother tonight.”

“Do I look like I care? Cancel it.”

“Come on, just tell me what’s go—”

A woman wanders into the aisle, and Dean stops mid-word. Henriksen sends a threatening grunt in his direction and goes to help the customer, leaving Dean with chaos in his head.

Just yesterday, Castiel and Henriksen seemed to be working together in a more or less civil fashion. Sure, they weren’t friends, but they had a common goal. The unexpected distrust on Henriksen’s part must have been caused by something Dean’s not privy to.

The phone in his pocket vibrates.

**<<< Cas**

Il Cono, now.

“Great,” Dean mutters. He shoots a surreptitious glance at Henriksen, but the guy is fully absorbed by the customer’s chatter about a washer-dryer she wants to buy for her son and future daughter-in-law. Dean takes advantage of the distraction to slip away out back, rounding the store and giving the Buy More entrance a wide berth in case Henriksen looks out the window. In quick strides, he crosses the parking lot, maneuvering between cars to use them as cover.

He doesn’t trust either of them, but if it’s Henriksen’s word against Cas’s, he’ll take Cas’s. And no, it’s definitely not because he’s thinking with his downstairs brain. It’s because Henriksen shoots first, asks questions later, and Cas does the opposite.

When he walks into Il Cono, Castiel is alone, wiping down one of the tables. The lack of other customers and the buffer their presence provides makes Dean pause in the threshold. An uneasy feeling burrows itself in his stomach. God, he hopes he hasn’t just jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

“Good, you’re here,” Castiel says. He throws the dishcloth over his shoulder and returns behind the counter, motioning for Dean to come closer. “I wanted to ask you about Henriksen. Has he been acting odd today?”

“If you can call forbidding me from seeing you odd, then yeah.”

A bottle of cleaning detergent slams against the counter.

“He did _what_.”

Dean shrugs, his eyes scanning over the ice cream display. “I was just as surprised as you are. Do you mind telling me what happened to set you both off? I mean, is it some CIA-NSA animosity I’m not aware of, or…”

“Doctor Bevell was killed in a car explosion last night, shortly after she left us.”

“Wha— the doc who was supposed to fix me?”

Castiel nods, then reaches under the counter to pull out a transparent plastic bag with a dark shape inside. “I found this at the explosion scene. Can you tell me what it is?”

On autopilot, Dean takes the bag and peers inside. It’s just a cell phone, a little charred—

“It’s an NSA incinerator. Designed to eliminate all biological traces.” Only after the words make it out of his mouth does he realize the implications of what he said. “NSA issue incinerator,” he repeats. “Do you think…”

“…our NSA friend orchestrated the explosion? I’m almost certain.”

“But why would he do that?”

“Because he’s a killer,” Cas says, taking the bag back from Dean and hiding it away. “Maybe he had orders, or maybe Doctor Bevell looked at him funny and he didn’t appreciate it. Whatever the reason, you need to go back to work and pretend like you know nothing.”

It doesn’t sound like a plan to Dean; it sounds like a death wish. If Henriksen really has gone off the reservation, there’s nothing stopping him from killing Dean, or anyone in the store, at any moment. Dean’s stomach twists when he thinks about Charlie, working side by side with a ruthless murderer. If anything happens to her…

“Dean,” Castiel says, bringing him back to the present.

“What?”

“I said, don’t worry. The way Henriksen killed Doctor Bevell was clean. No DNA traces, no body left, a perfect crime. He wouldn’t suddenly go on a killing spree in the middle of an electronics store. You’re safe there, for now.”

“Oh, that makes it all right then,” Dean huffs. “As long as the murder has a clear MO.”

Castiel tilts his head, considering. “Tell him I texted you,” he says.

“What?”

“Tell Henriksen that I texted you and demanded that you come see me. Tell him that you didn’t, as per his instructions.”

“O…kay? And what will that accomplish?”

“It will convince him that you trust him. He’ll also want to know what I want with you, so he’ll come here and I’ll be able to subdue him without witnesses.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Dean has a sudden mental image of Castiel slamming a cuffed man against the display case at Il Cono, face first into the glass. The man doesn’t look like Henriksen at all.

Dean swallows. “Fine,” he says. “Just don’t – don’t let him kill you, all right?”

“I’ll do my best,” Castiel promises, solemn.

Dean is about to leave when he remembers. He feels like an idiot bringing up something so trivial on the heels of a conversation about murder, but in a sense, it’s a matter of life and death too.

“One more thing. Would you… will you come to dinner tonight? 6 o’clock. My brother wants to meet you. He thinks we’re dating for real and I didn’t know how to… uh…”

He trails off, unsure how to justify the fact that he blabbered to Sam for almost half an hour, feeding him stories about a new exciting relationship that doesn’t exist. He’s half hoping Cas will say no, but he gets a smile and a “sure”. Dean looks closer for any traces of emotion, but Castiel appears neither pleased nor annoyed by the invitation; he simply takes it in stride. Gotta keep that cover airtight, Dean supposes.

“I’ll text you the address.”

“I know where you live, Dean.”

Oh, right. Cas had broken into his apartment before they even met. Easy to forget, since it’s one of the least significant things that happened to Dean this week.

Taking the same roundabout route as before, Dean slinks back into the Buy More through the employee entrance. Just as he’d hoped, his absence has gone unnoticed. A quick survey of the store reveals that Bobby is dozing in his office, the Nerd Herders and most of the sales reps are still in the storage room watching Charlie and Andy putting together their computers, and the remaining staff idle around, chatting in the breakroom or staring at the news shown on the TV wall. The few customers wandering around the aisles look like they don’t need assistance, and thankfully there’s no one waiting at the helpdesk. A usual day at the Burbank Buy More, boring as hell.

“What did Novak tell you?”

“Jesus,” Dean gasps, swiveling to face Henriksen’s angry scowl. “Who – Cas? I didn’t talk to him.”

“Don’t play stupid with me. You think I didn’t see you lurking around the parking lot like a dumbass?”

If Dean needed a reminder that he’s around real spies, that would do it. Of course Henriksen saw him; he’s James Bond, and Dean’s Moneypenny. Scratch that, Dean is Moneypenny’s IT guy who doesn’t even know the computer he’s fixing belongs to the MI6.

“You’re useless,” Henriksen tells him. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

Helpless, Dean watches him leave through the main entrance and head straight for Il Cono. The two stores are situated too far away from each other for Dean to see anything without leaving the Buy More, so he goes back to the Nerd Herd counter, feet dragging, wondering if there’s any chance his handlers won’t murder each other within the next ten minutes inside a cheery ice cream parlor of all places.

Times passes, and nothing happens. Dean keeps glancing out the window, though he can’t see shit, and down at his phone, though he doesn’t know what news he expects and from whom. Charlie, Andy and their small posse soon come back from the storage room, Charlie emerging victorious judging by the huge smile on her face.

“Twenty-seven seconds is a negligible difference,” Andy grumbles.

“Don’t worry, kid, maybe one day you’ll get on my level,” Charlie says serenely, then turns toward Dean and says, “Second lunch?”

Second lunch is a time-honored tradition between them, and exactly the distraction Dean needs, so he accepts gratefully. Charlie does not disappoint: she lets him have a bite of her turkey ham sandwich and entertains him with a riveting retelling of the computer-assembling competition, making him laugh so hard he spits breadcrumbs everywhere. Before their break is over, Dean’s mood is much improved and he even manages to convince himself that whatever Cas and Henriksen are up to is none of his concern. He’s got his own damn life to live and job to do.

“Oh, good, you’re back,” Andy says when they rejoin him at the helpdesk. “Some dude called requesting a home visit. I know it’s almost closing time, but he sounded majorly pissed off about some computer trouble. He asked for you specifically, Dean.”

Off-site calls are always a good excuse to get out of the store and take a drive, but not this close to 5 p.m. and freedom. Andy waves a post-it note with the address scribbled on it, and Dean groans.

“Mac or PC?”

“Mac.”

“Ugh. All right. Charlie, you’re in charge of closing the store. I probably won’t have time to come back. You’ll be fine, won’t you?”

“I think I can handle that burden,” Charlie says, and sends him off with a small wave goodbye.

* * *

The winter sun is dropping fast towards the horizon, the sky turning a greyish, dirty mauve as Dean steps out of his Toyota. The client lives in a peaceful neighborhood made up of modern, minimalist houses placed in orderly rows along the street. Number 2950 looks quiet, partly hidden from view by trees.

Dean hoists his messenger bag over his shoulder and sets off down a narrow, stone path leading up to the front door. He manages only a couple of steps before a thick arm shoots out from between the trees and yanks him aside. The arm’s upper part is covered by a short sleeve in Buy More’s signature green, and it’s attached to a taut neck, which in turn attaches to a very unhappy, scratched face of Victor Henriksen.

Dean’s blood runs cold, but his brain kicks into overdrive, quickly putting the pieces together. “You placed the call,” he gasps. “Oh God, are you gonna kill me? You— what happened to your face?”

The latter is hardly the more pressing of the two questions, but it’s the one Henriksen answers first.

“Your boyfriend happened to me,” he says, running his palm over the angry red marks on his cheek. “He went rogue.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. No, it’s you, _you_ killed the doctor who was supposed to help me.”

“I didn’t!” Henriksen snaps. “It was Novak, it must have been,” he says, and pushes Dean out onto the street before dragging him up the sidewalk and down an empty side street where the Dodge is parked at the curb.

Dean still doesn’t believe any of this. “Cas showed me the NSA incinerator,” he accuses as Henriksen unlocks the car.

“Yeah, a neat little explosive. As easy to purchase on the black market as hookers in Vegas.”

“But—”

“Think about it, Winchester. How much do you know about Castiel Novak? He’s CIA and he worked with Michael, who was rogue. Maybe they both were. Maybe Novak has been trying to get the Intersect back this whole time, but he couldn’t grab you because I was around. Then Doctor Bevell stepped onto the scene, which complicated things. If she managed to extract the secrets from you, they would have been lost to him, so he killed her, then tried to kill me when I confronted him.”

Dean stares at Henriksen in horror. He hasn’t thought about it like that, but now that it’s been put into words, it sounds alarmingly plausible. Castiel has already resorted to breaking and entering, not to mention straight-up shooting NSA agents. He wrapped Dean around his finger with smooth talk and well-practiced charm to ensure his cooperation, then tried to turn him against Henriksen by showing him the incinerator.

Hurt and humiliation swell in Dean’s chest. He got played like a fucking kindergartner. Dangle a hot guy in front of him and he’ll believe anything.

“Did he really try to kill you?” he asks, pointing to Henriksen’s face.

“No, I slipped on a banana peel. Get in the car.”

Dean already has one foot in when he remembers about the Toyota. “What about my Nerd Herder?”

“Forget the stupid car, we need to get you somewhere safe.”

“And where would—”

A ringing sound interrupts him, and Dean’s hand goes to his pocket on autopilot. “Not mine.”

“Not mine either,” Henriksen says.

They look at each other, then at the backseat. A cell phone lies there innocently, lit up with an oncoming call.

“RUN,” Henriksen yells.

Heart in his throat, Dean scrambles for the door handle and all but falls out of the car, flinging himself forward, as fast and as far as his legs can carry him. He runs and runs and miraculously, manages to put enough distance between himself and the car that when the device activates, the only damage is his eardrums ringing in the explosion’s wake.

“Fuck,” he whispers, watching the remains of Henriksen’s SUV swallowed up in flames. “Two bombs in two days. Fuck. _Fuck_.”

“He’s cleaning the operation,” Henriksen comments from Dean’s left. He’s perched behind a nearby garbage can like it’s the safest place to survive a blast wave. “Eliminating everyone he’s come in contact with. Come on, we gotta get a move on.”

“Hold on, we can’t just leave a smoldering car sitting in the middle of a residential neighborhood.”

“Sure we can.”

At Dean’s disbelieving look, Henriksen explains, slowly like he’s dealing with a child, “A response crew will deal with it.”

As they walk towards the Toyota – now their only mode of transportation – the shock lifts enough for Dean to realize something even more terrifying than his near-death experience. The man who planted the incinerator is invited to dinner with Dean’s family. Dean glances at his watch; it’s 5:40. By the time they make it back, Castiel might already be at his front door.

Between one step and another, reality slows down, and Dean’s mind accelerates. He’s not going anywhere until he makes sure Sam and Sarah are safe, but Henriksen isn’t likely to accept any detours. They only have one car. Castiel is dangerous, and his presence in Burbank is Dean’s fault, and Dean will _not_ let him harm his loved ones.

They’re almost at the car now.

“Oh God, it’s him,” Dean hollers and points behind Henriksen. If somebody asked him to estimate the chances of this sophisticated plan succeeding, he would say, optimistically, fifty-fifty. Maybe less, considering Henriksen is a special agent trained in field work and Dean is a civilian nerd.

And yet.

Henriksen takes the bait. He spins around, drawing his gun at the empty air. The window of time is slim at best, so Dean springs into action. He paws at the door handle, throws himself into the driver’s seat and slams his foot on the gas pedal. The car shoots off down the street with a squeal of tires.

“I’m so fucked,” Dean mutters, casting a last glance at a cursing Henriksen waving his fists at him in the rearview mirror.

* * *

Dean’s fears are confirmed when he bursts through the door at precisely two minutes past 6 o’clock and finds Castiel leaning comfortably against the kitchen counter, chatting with Sarah while Sam sets down cutlery on the table. Three pairs of eyes turn to him, and Dean’s mind draws a blank. What happens now? He hasn’t thought that far ahead. If he tries to blow their boyfriends cover, Castiel might get spooked and start acting aggressive. Perhaps it’s better to play along and find a way to cut the evening short as quick as possible.

“There you are,” Sam says, putting down the last fork and lining it up neatly with the plate. “I started to think you’d chickened out.”

Dean gives a forced laugh. He closes the door and steps into the living room, willing his hands to stop sweating. “I see you’ve met Cas.”

From his place at Sarah’s side, Castiel gives Dean a nod and that beautiful half-smile of his. Asshole.

“He’s so charming,” Sam whispers to Dean. “I don’t know what you did to get a guy like him to date you, but whatever it is, keep doing it.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean begs. He looks over his brother’s shoulder to make sure Sarah is all right, but she seems equally charmed with Cas, her eyes alight at whatever he’s telling her.

“Sam, listen. Maybe we should all go out. Like, for a pizza or something.” _Somewhere public, with lots of people._

“Pizza?” Sam repeats, staring at him as if Dean suggested they go rob a bank. “Dean, the tacos were your idea. Sarah put a lot of work into them, and I’m not letting it go to waste.”

Dean can’t find a counterargument to that, and even if he could, there’s no time to voice it. They all take their seats at the table, and Sarah brings over a huge plate filled to the brim with her signature tacos, setting it down before them with a flourish.

“Dig in,” she encourages.

“These look delicious, Sarah,” Cas compliments, helping himself to one.

“Try it first, you might change your mind.”

“I’m confident I won’t.”

“Sarah is the best cook between the three of us,” Sam says with pride, “but Dean is a close second. You must convince him to make you his lasagna. It’s heavenly.”

It’s not a lie, nor even an exaggeration, but Castiel doesn’t know that. He probably thinks Sam is trying to put in a good word for his brother, and Dean’s ears burn in mortification at the mere thought.

“It’s not that good,” he objects weakly.

“I don’t know about the lasagna, but these tacos are divine,” Castiel says, swiping his tongue across his lip to lick off some excess salsa.

Sarah beams, and under the table, Dean digs his fingernails into his palm. This is all his fault. He brought a murderer home, and now said murderer is sitting at their table, enjoying his brother’s girlfriend’s tacos, making obscene little hums of pleasure around his chorizo, and probably pondering on the best way to kill them all.

There’s a knock on the door.

Dean freezes. Sam and Sarah look at each other in surprise.

“Are you expecting other guests?” Castiel asks. His tone is casual, but his eyes are alert, and his hand moves from the tabletop to his thigh. _Towards his gun_, Dean thinks. _He brought a gun to my house._

“We’re not,” Sam says, already standing up to open the door. Dean isn’t sure if he should let him or not, and before he can make a decision, it’s too late.

“Hello there,” says a familiar voice that makes Dean and Cas snap to attention. “I’m Victor. I just moved in next door.”

Castiel’s arm shifts, and Dean stands up so fast he knocks his chair backwards. “Vic, hi! You made it!” he exclaims, almost running towards him. “Do something,” he mouths desperately before turning around with a fake smile, throwing his arm over Henriksen’s shoulder. “Victor here is my new colleague from the Buy More. I told him to come over tonight – the more, the merrier, right?”

Sarah falters for only a second. “Of course,” she smiles, though her eyebrows travel high onto her forehead. “Victor, is it? Please, come on in. We have plenty of tacos to go around.”

Henriksen offers her the most awkward smile Dean has ever seen, and then his eyes slide over to Castiel. For a split second, Dean expects them to drop all pretense and tear each other’s throats out. The moment passes, and Castiel says, all calm and polite, “Oh, I’m afraid there aren’t enough chairs. Dean, do you think you could bring one more?”

While it’s true that they’re one chair short now, Dean has no intention of leaving Castiel unsupervised with Sam and Sarah, even with Henriksen present.

“Sure, I can bring my desk chair,” he says sweetly. “Will you lend me a hand?”

Sam throws him a strange look – carrying a chair is hardly a two-men job – but Castiel is up and at Dean’s side in a flash. His hand lands heavy on Dean’s shoulder.

“We’ll be right back,” he says, and none too gently pushes Dean down the hall towards the bedrooms.

“That was subtle,” Dean hears Sarah whisper.

Whatever she thinks they’re about to do in the privacy of Dean’s room, it’s sure to be more fun than reality.

As soon as they’re both inside, Castiel closes the door and slams Dean against it, his hands fisting into the lapels of Dean’s shirt.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he growls. His fingers tighten, his upper lip rises in a snarl, and for a moment, Dean’s body doesn’t know how to react, floundering between fear and arousal.

It settles on fear.

“Not here,” he chokes out. “Please, you can do anything you want with me, but leave Sam and Sarah alone. They don’t know anything.”

Castiel flinches back, though he doesn’t let go of Dean. “What?”

“I know, okay? I know you killed the doctor and then tried to kill Henriksen. You really like making cars go boom, don’t you?”

Castiel’s eyes go wide with shock. Dean takes advantage of his momentary confusion and raises his hands to wrap them around Castiel’s wrists. He tries to pull them away, but he might as well attempt to move a wardrobe with his pinky.

“There was a second car explosion?”

Perplexed, Dean nods. “You know there was,” he insists. “You were behind it. Henriksen and I almost died, and no one else could have...”

The disorientation on Castiel’s face gives way to realization so suddenly that Dean pauses mid-sentence, just in time to hear Castiel’s soft gasp of “She’s alive.” A second later the door handle twists next to Dean’s back and the door swings inwards, pushing Dean into Castiel’s arms.

For some unfathomable reason, Castiel’s instinct is to catch him.

“Novak,” Henriksen hisses, stepping into the room. “Let go of the Intersect.”

“I have a name,” Dean protests, offended. He shakes himself free from Castiel’s hold and takes a step back, which puts him squarely between the two agents.

“Doctor Bevell is alive,” Castiel says, sharp and to the point. “I’m not responsible for the explosions, and if you aren’t either, that only leaves her.”

“Cas,” Dean says, “she blew up. You told me so yourself.”

But now Henriksen has that look of imminent epiphany, too. “It was staged,” he says slowly. “We thought the device eliminated all biological traces…”

“…but there were never any of them on the scene to begin with,” Castiel finishes. “She blew up an empty car. You have to hand it to her, it was clever.”

“Why the hell would she fake her own death?” Dean demands.

“I’ve no idea,” Castiel admits. “But I think it’s safe to assume that she wants to know who you are, and we can’t let that happen. Henriksen? Will you—”

“Yup,” Henriksen says, like the rest of that question was obvious. “Winchester, you stay here.”

They barge out of the room and through the hallway before Dean can get a word in edgewise, saying quick thank-you’s and sorry’s to Sam and Sarah on their way out. Trying not to feel guilty about the confused and disappointed look on Sam’s and Sarah’s faces, Dean follows suit, promising he’ll be right back, and catches up to Cas and Henriksen in the courtyard.

“Where are you two going?”

“To hunt her down,” Henriksen tell him.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get her,” Castiel adds. “Just stay put. And reiterate my apologies to Sam and Sarah, if you’d be so kind.”

There’s nothing else for Dean to do but watch them go; two men who were ready to kill each other just a few moments ago, now partnering up against a common enemy like nobody’s business. He should be worried for them – if that crazy-ass doctor likes pyrotechnics so much, who knows what else she’s capable of – but the dominant feeling in his chest is relief.

Cas is not rogue. Neither of them is. They’re both determined to protect Dean and willing to play along in front of Sam and Sarah to keep them in the dark and safe.

Given the circumstances, it’s all Dean could hope for.

* * *

The Devil works fast, but the combined forces of NSA and CIA work faster. It’s not long after Dean retires to his room (having fed rather unconvincing excuses to an unimpressed Sam and a suspicious Sarah, devoured the remaining tacos and helped to clean up as a form of self-imposed punishment) that he gets a phone call from Castiel.

“You caught her already?” he repeats into the phone, disbelieving. “You left like an hour and a half ago.”

“We’re efficient. Once we knew she was still alive, it wasn’t that difficult to track her down. But we still don’t know why she faked her death, and she won’t talk.”

“So what now?”

“I have an idea. That’s why I called you.”

“Oh. And here I was, thinking my fake boyfriend just wanted to hear my voice.”

There’s a strange huff on the other end of the line, a curious mixture of amusement and exasperation. “I realized that you haven’t seen her face,” Castiel explains, ignoring Dean’s comment. “I’m hoping that the Intersect can tell us something more about her.”

“You mean that I flash?”

“Yes. I’m sending you her picture.”

Dean’s phone pings, so he lowers it from his ear and swipes his finger to open the message. The woman on the photograph has a haughty, posh look about her, her eyes cold and sparkling blue. Her golden blond hair is tied in a bun on the top of her head, and—

“She’s feeding American science to North Korean intelligence. She has been for years.”

“Are you sure?”

Dean shrugs before he remembers that Castiel can’t see him. “I’m not. The Intersect is.”

There’s a brief silence on Castiel’s end, and then, “All right. We’ll work with that.” Another beat. “Thank you, Dean.”

“My pleasure,” Dean mumbles. He doesn’t deserve any credit. It’s Cas and Henriksen who did all the heavy lifting, chasing down a rogue scientist and capturing her. All Dean did was look at a picture. “Look, Cas, I need to know. I realize she’s a traitor or whatever, but can she still help me? With the Intersect?”

“I don’t know, Dean. Even if she could, I doubt she would be allowed anywhere near an invaluable asset such as yourself, now that we know she’s working against us. You shouldn’t hold out too much hope.”

Although Dean expected a similar answer, it doesn’t stave off the sting of disappointment. “Great. So I’m stuck like this.”

“Yes,” Castiel says bluntly. “Which is why I suggest you start trusting me.”

“Cas,” Dean begins, gingerly, but he doesn’t get any further.

“Dean, I can’t impress upon you enough how important it is for an asset to trust their handler. These past two days, you’ve seen for yourself how dangerous this world is. If you go behind my back, if you don’t trust me—”

“Cas, look—”

“If you don’t trust me,” Castiel repeats, louder, “you’re going to get yourself killed. It’s my job to protect you, Dean. You have to let me do it.”

Dean purses his lips. He did jump into conclusions, he’ll admit that, but Castiel hasn’t been straightforward with him either. Their whole acquaintance started with a lie, for fuck’s sake. Dean can’t be expected _not_ to have a trust issue or two.

Pressing his phone tighter against his ear, he decides to take the plunge. It’s not like he has much of a choice, anyway. “Okay, Cas. My life in your hands. But you must meet me halfway on this trust thing.”

A soft exhale comes through the speaker, followed by “Of course, Dean.”

“Good.”

Before the silence can grow awkward, Castiel says, “Sleep well,” and hangs up.

* * *

Despite the abrupt, premature ending of taco night, Sam doesn’t lay down his weapons. With his first opportunity to get to know Castiel cut short, he immediately sets out to create a new one.

“Lunch,” he says.

Dean stills with his fork halfway to his mouth. A piece of bacon falls down onto the plate.

“I’m pretty sure what I’m eating right now is breakfast.”

“No,” Sam waves him away. “I mean, we should get lunch. Together.”

Dean spears a new piece of bacon, eyeing Sam with distrust. They never meet for lunch, for the simple reason that it makes zero sense. Sam’s office and the Buy More are as far away as two buildings can get within Burbank city limits, not to mention that Dean rarely ventures outside the breakroom, and Sam uses his lunchtime for business meetings. Add to it the fact that they eat breakfast at the same kitchen table on an almost daily basis – like now – and it’s no wonder why they haven’t had lunch together in months, if not longer.

“Not that I’m saying no,” Dean begins. “But why…”

“Sarah, too,” Sam cuts him off.

Better, but still suspicious.

“We could go grab a frozen yogurt or something.”

Ah. There it is.

“Frozen yogurt is not lunch, Sam. Just admit it’s about Cas. You want to go to Il Cono, right?”

Sam doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed of himself. “Just so you know, Sarah and I are gonna drop by whether you join us or not. It’s her day off today, and I don’t have any meetings lined up for lunchtime.”

Dean groans. “So this is a heads-up?”

“Pretty much.” Sam puts his empty plate in the sink and douses it with water. “1 o’clock.”

Based on previous experiences, any attempts at arguing are pointless, so Dean finishes his breakfast, shoots off a text to Cas to warn him about impeding incursion, and leaves for work, sending out a little prayer that this time, their meeting won’t be hindered by any national security emergencies.

When lunchtime rolls around, Dean leaves Charlie in charge of the Nerd Herd desk. He makes it to Il Cono almost ten minutes early, hoping to have a word with Cas before Sam and Sarah arrive.

He does not expect the sight that greets him.

“Oh fuck,” he swears. Before his brain can catch up with him, he lifts his hand, brushing the backs of his fingers against a dark bruise splotched on the left side of Castiel’s jaw. It looks so bad, Dean gets phantom pain just from seeing it. “What happened to you?”

Apparently, Castiel believes that sugarcoating things is a waste of his time. “Doctor Bevell tried to escape. She’s dead.”

Dean drops his hand. So much for hoping that she might still fix him one day. He swallows, and tries to pretend that news of somebody’s death affects him as little as it does Castiel.

“So… she did that?”

“Yes.”

“Does it hurt? ‘Cause from the way it looks, it must sting like a bitch.”

Castiel shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve had much worse.”

“That doesn’t sound as comforting as you seem to think.”

Despite the swelling and the purplish discoloration covering his face, Castiel’s smile sends Dean’s heart into a spin. CIA agents shouldn’t smile like that. Their smiles should be suave and smarmy, carefully timed, intended to get them what they want. Not soft and understated, making you desperate to see more.

Dean clears his throat.

“Sam and Sarah will be here soon. We should come up with a cover story for this mess, because I guarantee you they’re gonna flip out. You look like you went five rounds with Gunner Lawless.”

Although Castiel doesn’t comment on it, it’s clear that he has no idea who Gunner Lawless is.

“Did you tell them anything specific about the reason I left last night?” he asks instead.

“No. Only that you had an emergency. They, um, didn’t look convinced.”

“They will be now, once they see this,” Cas says, pointing to his jaw. “Here’s the story. My neighbor called to tell me that someone was breaking into my apartment. I came home fast enough to startle the burglar and he punched me while getting away. Clear?”

Dean shouldn’t be surprised at this point, but the ease with which Castiel fabricated a completely false story on the spot is disturbing. And impressive. Though mostly disturbing. It makes Dean wonder if all the interest Castiel showed him during their first non-date was equally genuine.

Just as he’s predicted, Sam and Sarah give twin gasps of shock when they see Castiel’s battered face. The explanation doesn’t lessen their concern, and what’s worse, they start asking questions about where Castiel lives, if it’s a safe neighborhood, if the police are doing something, would Cas feel better if he could stay with them until the burglar is found?

To his credit, Castiel braves it all like a champ. His assurances sound so convincing that even Dean finds himself nodding along, despite knowing it’s all a crock of shit. There’s something about the way Castiel speaks, unhurried but confident, that makes it extremely easy to believe his every word.

Having assuaged Sam and Sarah’s concern, Cas ushers them to a table. “Please, let me get you some ice cream. On the house.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

“I insist. It’s the least I can do after repaying your hospitality by bailing on you halfway through dinner.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Sarah says, glancing back at Dean and Sam. “What do you say, boys? Decadent dessert time?”

A lot can be said about the Winchester brothers, but not that they refuse ice cream when offered. They ask Castiel to surprise them with flavors of his choosing, and Dean soon finds himself holding a cone with two huge scoops of lemon ice cream.

“That’s the one you like, right?” Cas checks, pulling up a chair and taking a seat next to Dean. He prepared a cone for himself, too; it looks like vanilla, and leaves a small droplet on Castiel’s upper lip when he licks a little bit off the top.

Dean stifles the impulse to wipe it away before he remembers that he doesn’t have to. Sam and Sarah’s presence demands that they keep their cover. As long as they’re here, Dean and Cas are together, and they’re expected to act like it.

Trying to ignore the nagging voice in his head telling him what a bad idea it is, Dean leans forward and gently swipes his thumb across Cas’s lip.

It’s soft and a little damp under his touch. Cas looks up at him, something like curiosity flashing behind his eyes before he schools himself. “Thank you,” he murmurs, grabbing Dean’s retreating hand and lacing their fingers together.

Dean feels his face heat up. He doesn’t dare glance at Sam.

Mercifully, Sarah asks some innocent question about Cas’s experience of working at an ice cream parlor. The conversation drifts towards safe topics, turning light and lively and much more enjoyable than Dean could have expected. Sam talks about an absurd lawsuit he worked on a couple of weeks ago, Dean tells them about a customer who caused a scene about the speaker in his new laptop not working only to discover he had hit the mute button, and they all lose it over Sarah’s story about a 70-year-old lady who accidentally ate her grandson’s space cakes and came into the ER thinking she was dying. While Castiel doesn’t offer any anecdotes of his own (Dean suspects they would contain too much murder to be considered appropriate), he does laugh along, asking a follow-up question here and there, a glow in his eyes that Dean has only seen once before: during their first night out.

Their intertwined fingers rest on Castiel’s thigh the entire time, and the fact that it’s a fake, empty gesture doesn’t make Cas’s hand any less nice to hold.


	3. The Water Lilies

The first two weeks following Doctor Bevell’s escape attempt and subsequent death are quiet, lulling Dean into a false sense of security. With no new flashes, bombs and other immediate threats on the horizon, Dean’s only reminder of his predicament is the very presence of his handlers.

Henriksen doesn’t bother him much, unless you count glares and grunts as a form of harassment. He doesn’t fraternize with the rest of the Buy More staff, but his work efficiency puts him in good graces with Bobby, who one day grabs Dean by the elbow and asks him if he saw the new guy carry a stack of flat screen TVs across the store without any help. (Dean did. It was awesome.) Henriksen also moves into Dean’s apartment building, since that’s the lie he told Sam and Sarah, but it doesn’t translate into any socializing. Most of the time, him and Dean pretend like they’re normal work colleagues and neighbors who don’t have much in common – which is true – and keep each other at a respectful distance.

As for Castiel, the situation proves more tricky. They can’t stop seeing each other just because there’s nothing for Cas to brief Dean about. Their cover demands regular contact to keep up the appearances.

It’s weird.

“Hi,” Dean mutters. He leans across the Nerd Herd counter and kisses Cas’s cheek, feeling like a complete idiot.

“Is this how you normally greet people you date?”

“What’s wrong with a cheek kiss?” Dean asks defensively.

“Nothing at all. It’s rather sweet, actually, though I’m afraid it’s not enough to authenticate our cover.”

Dean grits his teeth. He would love to kiss Cas properly – full on the lips, hand cupping his healing jaw, lingering for a second or two after – but not when it’s fake. Not when he knows Castiel only allows it because it’s his job.

“Well, pardon me if I prefer to keep PDAs down to a minimum in my workplace,” he retorts, sitting back in his chair and picking up a pen just to give his hands something to do. He taps it against the repair log. “Was there something you wanted?”

“You’re mad.”

Dean looks up. “I’m not mad.” It’s true. A more accurate term would be “frustrated”.

“It’s not my fault you’re saddled with the Intersect. Don’t take it out on me.”

Dean puts the pen down. “I’m not—”

“You are. And we need to work through it, because the next time you flash on something and we’re all thrown into danger, your anger is going to become a liability.”

Sighing, Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. There’s not much he can say in his defense without revealing the real reason he’s upset. While walking around with a head full of secrets that don’t belong to him and can activate at any second sucks ass, feigning his way through a relationship with a gorgeous guy who under normal circumstances wouldn’t look twice at him is somehow harder.

Instead of saying any of that, Dean goes a different route.

“I’m a liability either way. You and Henriksen are pros. The only gun I’ve ever held was that fake plastic shit arcade games sometimes have.”

“If that’s what worries you, I can give you a crash course in firearm safety. Just as a precaution,” Castiel adds, seeing Dean’s face. “I do hope you won’t need it.”

Dean hopes so too, but he’s always been a realist. Besides, he might as well learn something new.

“Fine. How are we gonna do it?”

Castiel ponders this for a moment, making a thoughtful humming sound that Dean absolutely does not find adorable.

“My place. You can tell your brother that you’re going out with me, that way we can kill two birds with one stone.”

“Always hated that saying,” Dean mumbles. “What have those poor birds ever done to you.”

Castiel’s eyebrow lifts. “Is that a yes?”

“Yeah, yeah. Where do you live, anyway?”

As it turns out, Castiel lives in a modern apartment complex in downtown Burbank, complete with a concierge, a gym, a swimming pool lined with palm trees, and an outdoor fireplace and barbecue area. Clearly, the CIA doesn’t spare expenses to accommodate their operatives.

When Dean knocks on Castiel’s door later that day, still dressed in work clothes and clutching his phone to double-check the apartment number, he feels like he’s on a home install. With his Nerd Herd outfit comprised of a white, short-sleeved dress shirt and a thin blue tie, he looks so out of place here it’s ridiculous. As the door cracks open, he has to stifle the urge to say “Hi, what seems to be the problem with your computer?”.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets him, and steps aside to let him in.

If Dean had to describe the inside of the apartment with one word, he would choose “crisp.” The space looks like it came straight from a West Elm catalog: sleek white lines, sparse minimalist décor and a distinct lack of coziness. There isn’t a single thing here that would hint at personality. Dean suspects it might have something to do with the open suitcase standing at the foot of the queen-sized bed.

“You haven’t unpacked yet?”

Castiel follows Dean’s line of sight. He shrugs. “I rarely do on missions.”

“I thought you said the Intersect isn’t going anywhere, at least for a while.”

“It’s unlikely,” Cas confirms. He doesn’t offer any further explanation, and Dean decides it’s not his place to prod. If Castiel wants to live out of a suitcase, that’s his prerogative.

“So, what about that Gun 101?”

Castiel walks up to his nightstand and pulls a Glock out of the drawer.

Dean swallows.

“Relax,” Cas says. He doesn’t smile, but his expression softens. “I’ll just walk you through basic gun safety, that’s all. Sit down.”

They take a seat next to each other at a small table that connects the bedroom and kitchen areas. Dean laces his fingers in front of him, eyes fixed on the gun in Castiel’s hand. There’s no mistaking it for a toy; it looks heavy and very, very real.

“Let’s start with the fundamentals,” Castiel begins. “Rule number one is to always assume the gun is loaded. It doesn’t matter if you emptied the clip or if you think it shouldn’t be loaded. You see a gun, you treat it like it’s loaded. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Rule number two is to not aim it at anyone or anything that isn’t your target. The safest place to point it is usually the ground. Just don’t point it directly at your feet.”

“Straightforward enough.”

“Rule number three is to keep your finger off the trigger until right before firing. Forget about everything you’ve seen on TV and in movies, they violate that rule constantly.”

“Someone’s salty,” Dean smirks.

Castiel gives him a withering glare. “You think it’s fun blowing someone’s head off because you got startled with your finger on the trigger?”

“Uh...”

“Exactly. Finger. Off. The trigger.”

“Got it,” Dean says seriously.

Castiel nods, and offers him the gun.

Dean blinks at it. “What?” he asks, staring at the black muzzle.

“Take it. I’m going to teach you how to load it.”

“Shouldn’t you do like a demonstration first, or…”

“No. Which is your dominant hand?”

“Oh, um. I’m a rightie.”

Under Castiel’s watchful eye, Dean takes the Glock, his palm already sweating around the grip. It’s not as heavy as he expected, though it still outweighs any fake Dean has ever held.

“It’s unloaded now, right?”

“Yes.”

“But I shouldn’t take your word for it?”

This time, Castiel’s smile is unmistakable. “Correct. To load a gun, first you need to take out the magazine. There’s a release knob on the side.”

Dean finds the release and presses it. The magazine slides out into his hand.

“Good. Now pull the slide back.”

Dean pauses. The slide, that would be the upper part, right?

He must falter for a beat too long, because Castiel gently takes Dean’s left hand and puts it on the top of the pistol, proving his assumption correct. Guiding the movement of Dean’s hand, Cas pushes the slide into position until there’s a soft click. His skin is warm and dry where it touches Dean’s.

“Okay. Next, put the gun down and load the magazine.”

Castiel pulls closer a box of rounds Dean hasn’t noticed before, and instructs him on how to insert them properly. Dean fumbles with the first few, so Cas’s hand comes to his rescue again. For the sake of convenience, Castiel wraps his entire left arm around Dean, showing him how to press his thumb against the round on top to slide a new one in. The maneuver brings them so close that Dean catches a whiff of the cologne he’s already become familiar with. If he were to turn his head a little to the right, their cheeks would brush.

Dean does not turn his head a little to the right.

Somehow, he manages to concentrate long enough to finish loading the magazine. Aided by Castiel’s pointers, he shoves it back into the pistol and pulls the slide back.

“Congratulations,” Castiel says into his ear. “You have successfully loaded a gun.”

Dean stares down at it, suddenly taken aback. He really has, hasn’t he? That’s where he’s at right now. Inside a beautiful apartment he will never be able to afford, with a man he will never be able to date, and a Glock pistol he will never have the guts to fire.

“I’m not a killer, Cas,” he says, like it’s shameful. “I appreciate the lowdown, I really do, but I can’t – I don’t think I could shoot anyone.”

“We all think that until someone forces our hand.”

Their eyes meet, and Castiel slowly takes the gun out of Dean’s hand. Without looking at it, he unloads it in quick, practiced movements.

“I’ve been wondering,” Dean blurts. “Why didn’t I flash on you when I first saw you?”

Castiel shrugs. “Maybe I’m not important enough to be in the Intersect.” Weirdly, Dean finds himself offended on Castiel’s behalf at that idea. “Or,” Castiel adds, “the information the Intersect has on me doesn’t contain any visual.”

Dean frowns. “Wouldn’t I flash when hearing your name, then?”

“Not for assignments I completed under different names.”

Seeing the stunned expression on Dean’s face, Cas lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t think Castiel Novak is my real name, did you?”

Of course Dean did. Apparently, he’s the idiot who believes people when they introduce themselves. And okay, maybe ‘Castiel Novak’ sounds a little too bizarre to be true, but on the other hand, it sounds just bizarre _enough_ to be true.

“It could be your real name, though.”

“What kind of sadistic parents do you imagine I have?”

“Oh, come on, like people don’t call their kids weird shit all the time. Common nouns, movie characters and whatnot. Daycares are full of little Khaleesis and Tyrions. It’s plausible that your parents would be into... uh...”

“Angel lore,” Castiel supplies. “But no, I adopted this name after joining the agency.”

Dean knows he won’t get an answer, but he has to ask. “So what is your real name, anyway?”

“Does it matter?”

“I dunno. It’s just that Cas really suits you.”

That earns him a smile.

“Glad to hear it. I’ve grown rather fond of that name, too.”

Watching Cas walk to the nightstand and put the gun away, Dean wonders if there’s anything he knows about the man that’s actually true.

“Are you really from D.C.?”

“Not originally, no.”

“Then where—”

“Dean.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“_Dean_,” Castiel repeats, a warning note in his voice. “You know I can’t answer any of that.”

“You know everything about _me_,” Dean sulks. “You know my family and my friends, you know where I work. You know which ice cream flavor I like! Can’t you just tell me one real thing about yourself? Just one. Something harmless. Please?”

Castiel sighs, long and deep. He sits on the edge of the bed and folds his hands in his lap. “This is unorthodox,” he mutters.

“I love unorthodox,” Dean assures him. “Unorthodox is fun.”

Cas silences him with one look, then squares his shoulders. “If you must know…”

Dean nods vigorously.

“...I take my coffee black, with two sugars.”

Dean stares. “Seriously? Your _coffee order_?”

“It’s true, and it’s harmless. That’s what you wanted, no?”

Dean rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t strain anything, but he stores the information away nonetheless. You never know when something like that might come in handy.

“You’re awful,” he informs Castiel. “And I’m gonna crack you.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

Dean wets his lips. “You don’t think I can?”

“I think you’ll get bored. I’m not that interesting, Dean.”

Dean’s first instinct is to laugh. He’s pretty sure that “boring spy” is an oxymoron, and Cas is without a doubt one of the most intriguing people Dean has ever met.

But when Dean takes a closer look, he doesn’t find Cas’s mouth curved into a smirk, nor his eyes alight with a teasing glint. Just an intent stare directed back at him.

Dean’s grin fades before it can fully bloom. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not.”

“Cas, if you’re boring despite working for the CIA, then what does that make me?”

Castiel shakes his head. “You’re confusing two things, Dean. My work for the CIA is interesting; I’m not. Your work at the Buy More isn’t interesting, but you are.”

Dean’s jaw drops a little before he can school himself and snap it shut. He looks down at his hands, clasped loosely between his thighs. “I— thanks.”

Cas doesn’t respond.

“Are you okay with that?” Dean asks at length, staring at his knees. “With your job being your whole life?”

He hears Castiel shift on the bed, the covers rustling under his weight.

“It’s hard, but gratifying. As tacky as it might sound, I like knowing that I’m making a difference. Besides, even if this line of work requires sacrifices, it’s preferable to the way I lived before.”

The flicker of Dean’s curiosity flares up into an open flame.

“I know I can’t ask, but—”

“Then don’t.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “Well, at least I tried.” He stands up, his gaze sweeping over the sterile room before settling on Castiel. They catch each other’s eye, and Dean realizes that Cas has drifted apart from him almost as far away as the room allows, having perched himself at the foot of the bed. He’s keeping Dean at a distance, and not just figuratively.

Dean thinks he might have an idea why.

“Hey,” he says, “there’s one more thing. Since we’re talking honestly, or semi-honestly—”

“I’m being very honest with you about the things I can’t tell you.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, okay. Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry you got stuck playing my boyfriend if that’s not your cup of tea. Guys, I mean. I know we’re way too deep now to backtrack on that, but I don’t like making you uncomfortable. It must be exhausting to have to fake an attraction you’re not even capable of feeling, and if there’s anything I can do to—”

“Who said I’m not?”

Dean blinks, stopping mid-ramble. “Uh, you did? That first night. I asked if you were into dudes and you said—”

“—that it wasn’t relevant. It wasn’t a no.”

Oh. _Oh_.

Dean swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. It should be a relief to find out he’s not complicit in some poor straight guy’s discomfort, but that’s not the part his treacherous brain focuses on. “So,” he fishes awkwardly, “you’re…”

“I don’t mind either way,” Castiel shrugs, with the casual air of someone who doesn’t believe it matters. “And you’re a very attractive man, Dean. Trust me, it’s no hardship.”

To his horror, Dean feels warmth creep up his cheeks. “That’s,” he starts to say, then stops. That’s fantastic. That’s _horrible_. “That’s good. I really didn’t wanna make you uneasy.”

“You are very sweet,” Cas says quietly.

As the blush spreads all the way up to his ears, Dean decides it’s high time to evacuate. “Okay, well— I’ll go now,” he says lamely, grabbing his bag. “See you at lunch tomorrow?”

Cas nods, and then the tiniest trace of a smile breaks out on his face, mesmerizing but volatile. “Will you bring me coffee?”

Dean can’t help it; he snorts out a laugh. “Maybe. Two sugars, was it?”

“Two sugars.”

“I’ll think about it. Will I get something in return?”

Cas squints at him with suspicion. “Like what?”

“Your favorite movie.”

Based on Castiel’s exasperated huff, Dean prepares for a rejection when he turns up at Il Cono the next day, a cup of coffee in each hand. But Cas accepts the drink without hesitation, tastes it to make sure it’s sweetened to his liking, then catches Dean’s eye and says: “_Apocalypse Now._”

Dean leans his elbow on the counter and takes a sip of his own coffee. “Yeah? What do you like about it?”

Castiel tells him, and by the time they move on from discussing the movie to the book that inspired it, a very annoyed Bobby calls Dean’s cell to inform him that while he’s fine with his employees taking extended lunch breaks from time to time, Dean would do well not to push it past the limits of decency.

“Gotta go,” Dean says wistfully once Bobby hangs up on him. “Put a pin in it?”

“Yes,” Cas says, though he looks a bit worried. He eyes the phone as Dean pockets it. “I do hope you didn’t get in trouble because of me. I’m sorry I kept you for so long.”

Dean waves a hand. “Eh, I’ll be fine. No one can blame me for losing track of time during lunch with my boyfriend.”

“I’m pretty sure your boss can. Besides, you haven’t even eaten anything,” Cas points out, and now there’s definitely a hint of guilt in his voice. “Won’t you be hungry? At least let me give you some ice cream—”

“Cas,” Dean interjects, because Castiel is already reaching for the scoop. “I’m good. If you’re so worried about my stomach, you can take me to dinner tonight after work. We could finish our talk on _Heart of Darkness_ over some burgers, what do you say?”

Cas hesitates. “Real date nights are not strictly necessary from the point of view of our cover.”

“Maybe,” Dean says with a shrug, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t hang out, right?”

“Dean—”

“If you don’t want to, just say no.”

Cas gives him an indecipherable look. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then bites his lip like he’s fighting some internal battle. Dean is just about to tell him to forget it, to take the offer back so that Cas won’t be able to turn him down, when he hears a soft, “Will you pick me up?”

And that’s how Dean finds himself in his favorite burger joint later that evening, on a non-date with his non-boyfriend, engaged in a conversation about Joseph Conrad’s novels and relishing the fact that the only reason Cas is here – not in Burbank, but here, at this particular table, eating this particular burger – is because he genuinely wanted to.

* * *

Their downtime comes to an abrupt end on a bright Sunday morning almost three weeks after Dean downloaded the Intersect. Him and Charlie are standing in line for the best bubble tea in Burbank, discussing the newest Marvel movie, when Dean’s eyes fall on a newspaper lying forgotten on a nearby table. He grabs it and scans the front page; the headline screams something about POTUS being in hot water again for tweeting a racist comment.

“Shocker,” Dean mutters, and flips the page.

“Anything interesting?” Charlie asks, looking over his shoulder.

“Nah, the usual bullshit,” Dean says, and then notices a small article tucked at the bottom of the page. ART AUCTION AT THE WILTSHIRE STRAND, the headline reads, followed by a picture of a vaguely impressionist painting depicting water lilies. A series of other images springs to Dean’s mind at the sight of it, and he has to blink his eyes to chase them away. “Shit,” he says.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I – I just remembered something. I gotta make a phone call. Will you...?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll buy you your bubble tea,” Charlie agrees. “I still owe you for the hotdogs last week, anyway.”

Dean squeezes her shoulder and practically sprints out of the shop, clutching the newspaper with one hand and fumbling for his phone with the other. He rounds the corner to find a quiet spot and dials Castiel’s number.

“Dean?”

“Hey, Cas. Sorry to badger you on a Sunday, but I just flashed.”

There’s a sound of doors opening and closing, and a hum of running water on Castiel’s end.

“All right, talk to me. What did you see?”

“I found this article about an art auction,” Dean explains, glancing at the newspaper in his hand. “I saw – I’m not sure, it was a clusterfuck of pictures as usual, but they’re going to be auctioning a painting tomorrow night, and – and someone’s going to be there. A bad guy, I think. Does the name Le Chevalier mean anything to you?”

Silence.

“Cas?”

“Yes, I’m here. And Le Chevalier is the alias of one of the most dangerous and elusive arms dealers in the world.”

“Oh,” is all Dean can say.

“As far as I know, no one has ever seen him,” Castiel continues. “Or at least no one has lived long enough to tell the tale. If he shows up at that auction, we might have a rare opportunity to catch him.”

Dean doesn’t want to think about what Le Chevalier would do to him if he realized Dean ratted him out to law enforcement. He is _not _getting involved in any of this.

“Well, I’m happy for you, but I have a bubble tea to drink, so… good luck with the manhunt.”

“Thank you. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Huh,” Dean says when the line goes dead. He expected more needling. He’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, though.

Throwing the newspaper into a nearby trashcan, he retraces his steps back into the bubble tea shop to rejoin Charlie. Together, they sit down in the sun to enjoy their drinks and chat, and for a brief moment, Dean thinks that maybe this whole Intersect business won’t be that bad. If all he has to do from now on is report everything he flashes on and let Cas and Henriksen deal with it, he can live with that.

* * *

The doorbell rings, but Dean’s too engrossed in his book to move from where he’s sprawled across the bed.

“I got it!” Sam calls from somewhere in the apartment, and Dean doesn’t think twice about it. Maybe Sarah came back from her yoga class, too tired to dig around her bag for keys. Maybe it’s Jehovah’s witnesses again. Whoever it is, they’re less interesting than Stephen King’s new novel, thank you very much.

His door cracks open.

“Dean? Your friend’s here.”

Dean looks up just in time to see Henriksen’s face pop up behind Sam’s shoulder.

“Hey, Winchester. Fancy a beer at my place?”

As baffling as the invitation seems, it takes Dean a few long seconds to realize it’s most likely code for “we need to discuss some spy stuff.” Casting the last rueful glance at his book, he rolls himself off of the bed and tries to summon some enthusiasm onto his face. It must work, because Sam claps him on the back and tells him to have fun (which Dean definitely won’t) before disappearing in his own room. Resigned, Dean follows Henriksen to his apartment on the other side of the complex.

“Is this about the auction tomorrow?” he asks as they cross the courtyard.

“Yup,” Henriksen says, helpful as always. He pushes the door open and ushers Dean inside, where much to his surprise, Dean finds Castiel stood next to the kitchen island, arms across his chest.

“Hey, Cas.”

Castiel gives him a small nod, but doesn’t move from his spot. His posture is tense, the line of his mouth thinned. _Something made him mad_, Dean thinks.

“Everything all right?” he asks.

“Henriksen and I relayed the information you provided us with to director Nicholson. We’ve been tasked with taking down Le Chevalier at the auction.”

Dean nods along, uncertain which part of that Castiel disapproves of.

“And you’re coming with us,” Henriksen adds.

“_What_? Why?”

Castiel tilts his chin up, his fingers flexing around his biceps. “Yes, Henriksen, would you mind explaining that to Dean?”

Suddenly, Dean knows that they’d been talking about him before he came over. And by talking he means arguing.

“We’re going to need that computer in your brain, champ,” Henriksen says, unmoved by Castiel glaring daggers at him. “No one knows what Le Chevalier looks like, and the stakes are too high. We can’t pass up the opportunity to grab him. We’re hoping you flash on something during the event, help us identify him. Otherwise we’re shooting blind.”

Dean swallows. “So I just have to... be there? Have a look around?”

“That’s right.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, locking eyes with him as if to make sure he has Dean’s undivided attention. “No one expects you to go toe-to-toe with an arms dealer. We’ll be there the whole time to protect you.”

“It’s a black tie event, so we’ve already rented you a tux,” Henriksen chimes in. “You two will go as guests, I’ll pose as a bartender. You have until tomorrow to work on your cover story. Novak will help you. Won’t you, Novak?”

The only thing that could make Castiel’s expression scarier is if he had blood of his enemies smeared across his face. “Of course I will,” he grinds out. “But we shouldn’t encroach on agent Henriksen’s hospitality any more than we already have. Let me walk you back to your apartment, Dean.”

After Henriksen unceremoniously shuts the door in their faces, Dean lets out a long, whistling exhale.

“That guy really doesn’t like us.”

“I imagine he’s frustrated by having to settle down here,” Castiel says. His eyes sweep over the silent courtyard, and he gestures toward a bench tucked against its southern wall in silent question. Dean nods, and they sit.

“What’s wrong with Burbank?” he asks, leaning back to look up at the rapidly darkening sky.

“Nothing. But Henriksen strikes me as the kind of agent who prefers being shipped away to a war zone rather than living in Hollywood’s backyard…”

“…and babysitting a guy like me,” Dean finishes.

“We’re not babysitting you.”

“Except you are. That’s what ruffled your feathers back there, isn’t it? You don’t think I’m ready for this.”

“No civilian would be.”

“So why am I going?”

“Because my objections were overruled.”

There’s a bitter note in Castiel’s voice that makes Dean turn towards him. He always looks good (alas), but from this angle, his profile stands out stark and sharp like a marble statue in the fading daylight. The bruise on his jaw is almost completely gone, only a faint outline of it visible underneath the five o’clock shadow.

Dean considers him. He thinks about Henriksen, who has no qualms about throwing Dean into deep water. Thinks about his own lack of field training and experience, and about Castiel not pointing it out aloud, presumably not wanting to scare him. Thinks, absurdly, about his day job, the safety and the mind-numbing boredom of it. A job where everything he does could be done by someone else, and where high stakes don’t exist.

“I’ll be fine,” he murmurs into the space between them. “You won’t let that Le Chevalier dude put a bullet in me, right?”

“I won’t,” Castiel says. It sounds like an oath, and Dean believes him. He probably shouldn’t, but he does.

* * *

The day of the auction, Dean wakes up with his stomach twisted into a knot. The thought of breakfast makes him nauseous, so he only swings by the kitchen to tell Sam and Sarah he’s hanging out with Cas in the evening, then clears out before Sam can ask too many questions about where they’re going.

At lunch, he slips away from the store and reports to Il Cono, where him and Cas take advantage of the sunny weather and sit at one of the outdoor tables to work on Dean’s cover. According to Castiel, the trick is to keep it simple and as close to the truth as possible without revealing any real details.

“Do you have a name in mind?”

Dean shrugs, biting off a piece of his cone. If he’s not careful, all the ice cream is going to give him a serious dad bod. “Not really. I think I’d like to keep my first name the same, if that’s okay.”

“That should be fine. ‘Dean’ is common enough. What about the last name?”

“Smith?”

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“What? Lots of people are called Smith.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer Fakey McFake?”

“Fuck off, Cas.”

Castiel grins, and Dean basks in it. Every time, making him smile feels like a personal victory.

“All right, all right. Dean Smith it is. What’s his backstory, then?”

This time Dean knows exactly what to say.

“He’s a Stanford graduate. Fresh out of school, he founded a hugely successful software company that he runs to this day, even though he could retire any time he wanted to. Oh, and he’s at the auction because his stupid boyfriend made him go.”

“That tracks,” Castiel allows. And then, because he’s way too observant for his own good: “So Mr. Smith went to the same college as you. Something else that you two share?”

Dean stares at the table top in front of him, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten again, this time for reasons unrelated to the auction. “The software company bit… it’s where I thought I’d be by now. Where I could have been, if it weren’t for Michael.”

The name lands between them like a nuclear missile. They have been tiptoeing around it ever since it first came up, both reluctant to dive into the past. It was too heavy a topic to bring up casually, anyway. But now Dean is almost morbidly curious to see Castiel’s reaction to the whole story.

“Aren’t you gonna ask what he did?”

Castiel sighs. “What did he do?”

“Our senior year, Michael found some stolen tests under my bed. Of course, being the upstanding student that he was, he immediately reported me to the administration. I was kicked out on the spot, just eight credits shy of graduating.”

“And did you steal them?”

Dean huffs. “Do I look like a thief to you?”

“We all make mistakes.”

“Yeah, and I made plenty. That just wasn’t one of them.”

Castiel nods, but his expression is undecipherable. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” he says stiffly.

“Yeah. Me too. And hey, it was just the first instance of Michael upending my life. Thank God he kept at it and sent me the Intersect, otherwise I might have gotten bored in my low-paying job that I have to do because of him.”

“You’re still angry.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s been a while. Besides, maybe he had his reasons.”

Dean shakes his head with disbelief. “You’re defending him?”

“I’m not. I believe your story. But Michael was my partner for years, and I don’t think he would do such a thing without a valid reason.”

“Oh, he had a valid reason,” Dean spits out, beyond livid now. “He wanted me out of the way so he could bang my girlfriend. Yeah, haven’t told you _that_ part yet, have I?” he adds, seeing a muscle in Castiel’s jaw jump. “He was my friend since orientation day, all through college, and then he turned and shat all over our friendship in all the ways he knew how. Sorry if the passage of time and him being dead don’t make that okay.”

A group of teenagers choose that moment to enter the ice cream parlor, forcing them to cut the conversation short. They pile inside amongst bouts of laughter, and Dean shakes himself off, his anger fading to a low simmer behind his ribs.

“I have to go,” Castiel says curtly. “You have your cover figured out, so our job here is done. I’ll see you this evening.”

As Cas disappears through the door without a single glance back, Dean wonders if Michael Milton will ever stop ruining things for him.

* * *

The Wiltshire Strand hotel is already overflowing with people by the time they arrive. Greeted by a besuited doorman, they pass through the hall and find themselves in a spacious, opulent reception area decorated with wall and ceiling frescoes. A murmur of hushed conversations carries through the room, soft jazz filtering through the open double doors leading to the bar up ahead.

Dean tugs at his bowtie, feeling ridiculous in his tux despite everyone else also being dressed to the nines. When a waiter dashes past him with a tray of champagne glasses, Dean snatches one and downs it all in one go.

“Behave,” Castiel scolds him. He takes a measured sip from his own glass, looking completely at ease in his black three-piece suit. “And stop fiddling with the bowtie.”

Dean’s free hand halts halfway to his collar. “It’s like having a noose around my neck,” he complains.

“You’ve never worn a bowtie before?”

“Why the hell would I?”

Castiel doesn’t respond, his eyes methodically scanning the room for any signs of trouble. It gives Dean an opportunity to stare at him without being seen, and he takes it unashamedly. He’s always known that a well-tailored suit does it for him, but this is some next level shit. If they were on a real date, and if Cas were into it, Dean would be dragging him to the men’s room for a quick groping right about now, slipping his hands underneath that waistcoat—

“Dean, you’re supposed to be looking at the crowd and trying to flash.”

Dean’s eyes snap back to Castiel’s, his cheeks heating up. “I am.”

Castiel levels him with a look. “Of course you are.”

_Keep it in your pants, you perv_, Dean tells himself. _This is a job. You’re both on a job._

On the way to the hotel, him and Castiel decided that their best chance of identifying Le Chevalier would be to ensure Dean gets visual of as many guests as possible without engaging in conversation with them.

“You just need to see him, any further contact is dangerous and unnecessary,” Castiel explained. “As soon as you flash, let me know and retreat, so that I can handle it.”

Dean can’t say he has a problem with that plan. Flash and fall back, sounds simple enough. It did rattle him a little when Castiel presented him with a black watch similar to his own (“It has a tracking system. That way I’ll always know where you are if things go south.”), but he’s managed to convince himself it’s nothing more than an insurance policy, not something they will actually have to use.

They have a lot of ground (faces?) to cover, so Dean puts away his empty champagne glass, grabs a full one from a waiter that happens to flit by – being offered liquor every way you turn is amazing – and they begin a slow walk around the room. Dean tries not to be obvious about the staring, but it’s not easy when it’s all he’s supposed to be doing. He must look like a maniac, his eyes darting around like he’s having a fit or something. It soon makes him dizzy, and the faces start to blur together. What a stupid way to spend the evening.

After a few minutes of aimless wandering, Castiel tugs gently at Dean’s elbow. “Anything?”

“Nope. Got a headache, though.” Dean sighs. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he’s not here.”

Castiel doesn’t get discouraged. “Let’s go take a look at the painting,” he suggests. “I know you saw it in the paper, but perhaps you flash on something new when you see it in person.”

Dean nods, and they stroll through the crowd towards the golden metal easel where the painting is mounted. There’s no one standing in front of it, probably due to it being ugly as fuck. Dean’s no expert, but even he can tell that it’s a piss-poor imitation of Monet.

“Ugh,” he says when they come to a stop before it. “I wouldn’t give five bucks for it.”

“It’s not very well-executed,” Castiel agrees.

Dean’s eyes slide from the painting to the frame, and he almost reels back from a sudden burst of images. “Holy shit, it’s the frame,” he gasps. “There’s plutonium hidden in it.”

“What?”

“Plutonium. The radioactive stuff for making nuclear weapons?”

“I know what plutonium is, Dean,” Castiel huffs. “So that’s what Le Chevalier came here for.”

“I guess.”

“All right, that’s something. We have to assume he’s going to bid for the painting. Possibly steal it or swap it before the auction begins. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on it, you go to the bar and fill in Henriksen.”

“Do I come back here later?”

“Of course you do, I still need you.”

Dean purses his lips. “Right, yeah. ‘Cause I’m the equipment. Gotta have me on hand.”

Castiel frowns and opens his mouth, but Dean raises his hand to cut him off, not too keen on finding out if Cas will even try to deny it. He spins on his heel, ready to make his way to the bar – and immediately flashes again.

“Cas,” he hisses through gritted teeth. He takes a quick step back into Cas’s space and leans in, his mouth against the shell of Cas’s ear to make it look like he’s horny instead of terrified. “That’s him. The guy at your seven o’clock, black hair, cheeks like a chipmunk. That’s Le Chevalier.”

Castiel’s hand tightens around Dean’s forearm. He tilts his head to the side and murmurs back, “Okay, I’ve got this. Go find Henriksen and tell him I might need help. Don’t walk too fast.”

Heart in his throat, Dean crosses the length of the room, studiously avoiding eye contact with Le Chevalier. He finds Henriksen polishing glassware behind the bar, looking for all the world like he’s been doing it for years.

“Finally,” he grumbles when he sees Dean. “Did you ID him?”

Not wasting time, Dean reports everything he flashed on and repeats Castiel’s request for backup. As soon as he’s done, Henriksen goes into action mode; he abandons his cleaning rag, tells Dean to sit his ass down, grabs a tray of champagne glasses (it’s incredible how ubiquitous they are, really), and disappears in the crowd.

Dean drums his fingers against the bar. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with himself until Cas and Henriksen get back. The barkeeper just ditched his post, so he can’t even order a proper drink, and he’s had enough champagne for one night.

Five dreadfully boring minutes later, he saunters back into the main reception area in search of distraction. At first, he gives the painting a wide berth – until he realizes there’s no one near it. Cas, Henriksen and Le Chevalier are gone, and the rest of the guests seem entirely uninterested in it. It’s almost as if they came here to show off their expensive formal wear and jewelry while knocking back alcohol rather than to contemplate art. Vanity in L.A. Who would’ve thought.

Dean gravitates towards the painting against his better judgment.

It really is exceptionally hideous.

“Do you like it?” asks a female voice to his right.

Dean freezes. It could be a regular guest… or Le Chevalier’s goon. Fuck. He should have stayed at the bar like Henriksen told him to.

He takes a deep breath, turns around—

He doesn’t flash. Just a guest, then.

“I’ve seen better,” he says, giving the woman in front of him a quick once-over. She’s dressed in a sapphire blue, off-the-shoulder gown that stands in contrast with the fiery red of her hair. Her mouth lifts in a small smile.

“Thank God, I thought something was wrong with me,” she says.

“Definitely not. If anything, there’s something wrong with the painter. I wonder if he’s ever actually seen water lilies.”

“Ouch,” she laughs.

“Too mean?”

“It’s not mean if it’s true.”

“That’s an interesting take on civility,” Dean teases.

“I don’t like wasting time on civility, mister...”

“Smith. Dean Smith.” He swears he didn’t mean for it to come out like a terrible homage to James Bond. “You?”

“Abby. Just Abby.”

There’s an unmistakable twinkle in her eye when she offers him her hand, and the cogs in Dean’s head start turning. Dean Smith came to the auction with his date, which complicates things. However, said date is currently off somewhere, arresting an international arms dealer, and Dean has time to kill. And he’s single, technically. Definitely not getting any from his fake boyfriend. Maybe a little hook-up is just what he needs.

“Are you here alone, Abby?”

“With a couple of friends. They abandoned me, I’m afraid.”

“Their loss, my gain.”

She looks up at him through her eyelashes. “Tell me, Mr. Smith, how disappointed would you be if you missed the bidding?”

The latch on her purse clicks open, and a second later there’s a hotel room keycard between her fingers. They’re on the same page, then.

“I could live with it,” he assures her.

“That makes two of us,” she says, slipping her arm under his. “Let’s leave these water lilies to other art connoisseurs.”

Dean quirks a smile, throwing one last glance at the painting – and pauses.

Wait. Why didn’t he flash on the plutonium earlier, when he saw the article in the newspaper?

It’s not the greatest moment to investigate the matter, but something doesn’t add up here, and when things don’t add up, it drives Dean _mad_. He strains his memory, eyes tracing the gold-leafed, over-the-top frame, until it clicks; he didn’t see it before tonight. The paper only reprinted the water lilies, sans frame.

That tracks.

“What’s wrong?” Abby asks, pinching him lightly on the forearm. She follows his line of sight and frowns. “Why are you looking at the frame?”

It would be tremendously stupid to draw anyone’s attention to where the plutonium is hidden, but despite what Dean likes to believe about himself, he’s not that good a liar. He takes just a little too long to answer; fumbles just a tad too much. His “Oh, nothing” sounds unconvincing even to his own ears.

Abby’s eyes narrow. “Well I’ll be damned,” she says, and Dean feels the cold press of a gun muzzle against his back.

* * *

“Listen,” Dean says, “this is some huge misunderstanding.”

For the dozenth time, he strains to wrench his hands free from where they’re bound behind his back, and for the dozenth time, he fails; the knot is too tight. He tries to wriggle his foot, but both his legs are tied to the chair as well. He’s uber screwed.

Abby gives him a cold smile and sits in front of him, gently lifting the hem of her gown with one hand. Her other is clasped loosely around the gun, its muzzle pointing sideways.

“I would prefer to avoid any nastiness,” she tells him, tone almost pleasant. “So I would appreciate it if you answered my questions truthfully. Let’s start with an easy one. What’s your real name?”

“I told you, my name is Dean Smith.”

She points the gun at his knee.

“Dean Winchester.”

“Smart man,” she smiles. “Now, who do you work for?”

“I work at an electronics store.”

She sighs. “You were doing so well.”

Before she can shoot him in the kneecap, Dean blurts, “I swear, okay? I swear on anything, I work at the Burbank Buy More, I fix computers. I only used a fake name because I – I’m with someone and I thought you and me were gonna hook up and wanted to be a different person for the evening.”

It’s hard to say if she’s buying anything he just said. She glances back at the two stone-faced men in dark suits flanking her sides – her muscle – then back at Dean. She taps her lip thoughtfully.

“Why did you look at the frame?”

“I read about the auction in a newspaper. The frame they showed there was different than the one downstairs,” he lies. “I was just curious.”

That gets a reaction Dean didn’t see coming. Abby leaps out of her chair and grabs him by the throat.

“Somebody swapped the frame?” she snarls.

“Y-yeah. I think so.”

She turns her head at the two goons. “It’s a setup,” she tells them.

Dean barely hears her, because the way Abby twists her neck, three inches from Dean’s face, reveals a long scar running behind her ear. It’s visibly old, but the injury that caused it must have been nasty. It also triggers a flash than confirms Dean’s worst fears. Somehow, the Intersect was wrong. It wasn’t the guy from before; _this_ is Le Chevalier.

Before Dean can decide on the best way to freak out, Abby turns back to him, her smile firmly in place.

“You just saved me a lot of grief, Mr. Winchester. I would let you go, but… you’ve seen me. I’ll make it quick to show you my gratitude, though. Boys, will you please take Mr. Winchester to the bathroom and shoot him in the head? Make it clean. Thank you.”

“What? No, no, I won’t—”

Abby’s henchmen lift the chair with Dean still strapped to it, and Dean’s vision goes dark at the edges. That’s it. This is how he dies: in a fancy hotel, in a fancy tux, because he wanted to get laid.

“I don’t even know your full name!” he calls desperately. “I’m not a threat to you.”

Abby tuts. “I haven’t gotten to where I am today by taking chances, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean’s heart pounds so hard against his ribcage that at first, he doesn’t hear the commotion outside the room. Le Chevalier and her henchmen do, and they don’t wait to see how the situation plays out. Abby points her gun at the door and fires blind, ripping a dozen bullet holes in it without bothering to check who’s on the other side. Her henchmen drop Dean to the floor and pull out their own guns, joining the hail of gunfire.

“Dean, get down!” comes Castiel’s muffled voice, followed by another slew of bullets.

Dean wouldn’t wait for Castiel’s say-so to crawl behind the nearby couch and flatten himself against the carpet, but he’s still tied to the stupid chair. Desperate, he does the only thing he can: he bounces the chair from side to side until it falls over, his right shoulder hitting the floor painfully. There. He can’t “get down” any more than that.

A sapphire blue dress flits before his eyes, disappearing in the direction of the balcony. _She’s escaping_, Dean thinks, hapless. _She’s getting away._

The door flies open, banging hard against the opposite wall, and Castiel bursts into the room with his gun raised and Henriksen close behind. Dean has never been happier to see them. His ears are ringing from all the noise, windows and glasses and vases shattering into pieces left and right. Something heavy thuds to the floor to Dean’s left, and that’s – that’s a dead person. He’s lying next to a dead person.

The gunfire halts just as abruptly as it started.

“Dean,” Castiel says, lowering his pistol.

“She took off through the balcony,” Dean says into the carpet. “Probably jumped one story down.”

From his humiliating position on the floor, he can’t see the rest of the room, but he hears quick departing footsteps, and a moment later a gentle hand lands on his back.

“Henriksen will take care of it,” Castiel says. He cuts the rope tying Dean’s wrists and ankles, pulling him up by the arms. Dean groans when the movement puts pressure on the shoulder he landed on.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just a bruise.”

“Are you sure?” Castiel insists. “It might be broken.”

Dean shakes his head, scrambling to sit up properly without jostling his shoulder too much. He takes stock of the room, and can’t help but give a low whistle. It looks like a battlefield, every surface in sight riddled with bullet holes. It’s a miracle none of them hit him.

“I’m good, Cas. What the hell happened?”

“I could ask you the same thing. The man you pointed us towards wasn’t Le Chevalier.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, and means it. “But I flashed on him, I thought – his face was all over Le Chevalier’s files.”

“That makes sense,” Castiel admits. Seeing Dean’s surprised expression, he clarifies: “He’s MI6. They’ve been pursuing Le Chevalier for months. They intercepted the plutonium a few weeks ago, but kept the auction going to lure her out.”

That checks out, Dean thinks morosely. He hoists himself upright, stifling a wince, and tugs at his bowtie until it comes off. He’s suffered enough for one night.

“Don’t worry,” Cas says. “You’re still learning how to use the Intersect. And you ended up identifying the real Le Chevalier, didn’t you?”

“I guess. But that wouldn’t matter if you guys hadn’t come rescue me. She would have blown my brains out.”

“This is exactly why we’re here, Dean. To _not_ let that happen. And now you see why you should never take this off,” Castiel says. For a moment, Dean thinks he means the bow tie, but then Cas taps the watch on Dean’s wrist. “We wouldn’t have found you in time without it.”

Dean swallows. He’s never parting with that watch again.

“Is it showerproof?”

“It’s a CIA issue watch. It’s everything proof.”

Dean gives a weak nod, and says, “Cas?”

“Yes?”

“I think I’d like to go home.”

No further questions asked, Castiel takes him home.

* * *

Sam and Sarah are still up when Dean makes it back, watching a movie cuddled up on the couch, so sneaking away to his bedroom unnoticed is out of the question.

“Hey, how was the date?” Sam asks, grabbing the remote and pausing the movie.

“We weren’t sure whether to expect you back today or tomorrow,” Sarah adds. There’s a half-empty bowl of popcorn in her lap and an open can of diet coke in her hand. At least these two had a normal evening.

“It was fine,” Dean mutters. He drops his keys onto the dresser and musters up a wan smile. “I’m beat, though.”

“I bet,” Sarah smirks.

“Gross,” Sam says, then frowns. “Dean, is there something wrong with your shoulder?”

“No.”

“You’re holding onto it like it hurts.”

“I may have… hit it.”

“Darling,” Sarah says to Sam, “you should probably drop this line of questioning if you don’t want to find out something you can’t unhear.”

Sam blinks, and his eyes widen. “Oh, _gross_!” he repeats. “I’m unpausing the movie.”

“Good night, Dean,” Sarah says sweetly, then stuffs a handful of popcorn in her mouth.

Dean doesn’t sleep well that night. His aching shoulder makes it difficult to find a comfortable position, and the auction plays back in his mind ad nauseam. When he does finally doze off, he falls headlong into a deeply unsettling dream.

It starts with a sapphire blue dress.

He reaches out to touch it, and the silky satin fabric slips between his fingers. The plain blue shade shifts in the light, swirls of white and gold growing outwards, encroaching further and further until the entire dress transforms into a pattern of water lilies.

“Do you like it?” Abby asks. Her eyes are the exact color of the dress, an unnatural, saturated hue that makes Dean think of actual sapphire stones. He meets her halfway when she leans in to kiss him, but instead of warm lips, he meets the cold barrel of a gun. Panicked, he recoils, and someone’s hand shoots out to catch him.

“Careful,” a new voice says.

Abby has disappeared, and now it’s Cas standing in her place with a disappointed look on his face.

“You let me down,” he tells Dean. “Even with a computer in your head, you can’t keep up with me.”

Dean takes a step closer, but the distance between them remains the same. “Cas,” he says. He takes another step forward. Castiel doesn’t move, and Dean walks on, faster and faster, still unable to close the space between them. He breaks into a run.

“What are you still doing here?” Sam asks, appearing at Dean’s side. “I thought you liked him.”

“I can’t go any faster,” Dean pants.

“You have to,” Sarah says from Dean’s other side. There are tears rolling off of her cheeks. “You have to,” she repeats, and points at Sam. There’s someone in a sapphire blue dress standing behind him, aiming a gun at his head.

“I’ll make it quick,” they say. “He won’t feel a thing.”

Dean wakes up with a start, a faint echo of a gunshot in his ears.


	4. The Trial Run

Castiel walks into the store two days after the auction and heads straight for the Nerd Herd desk. Since Charlie and Andy have gone on home installs, Dean is sitting there alone, manning the phone and feeling sorry for himself. Even the sight of Cas doesn’t improve his mood – in fact, it only serves as a reminder of the last time they saw each other. And what a fun evening that was, full of anxiety, with a dash of a near-death experience and a side dish of two government agents saving his ass after he screwed the pooch on doing the only thing they asked of him: correctly identifying a criminal.

“She’s been apprehended,” Cas says in lieu of greeting. “While trying to escape to South America.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

Dean lets out a loud breath. “That’s good,” he says lamely.

“It’s more than good. Taking such a huge arms dealer off the streets is fantastic news. The director was very impressed. I think it finally convinced her you might prove useful as an asset.”

Dean nods, but his expression must remain unhappy, because Castiel leans closer and takes his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean spots someone in a Buy More green shirt (Garth?) walk by, and he squeezes Cas’s fingers back, telling himself it’s just for the cover.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks, voice quiet.

Dean shakes his head. He can’t explain why he feels so disappointed in himself. What happened at the Wiltshire Strand wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t asked for the Intersect and he hadn’t been told how to use it. Despite the initial cock-up, Le Chevalier was captured. No harm, no foul.

“I’m not cut out for this,” he says, directing his words at their joined hands. “It’s awesome that you guys caught her, but I – I don’t know, Cas. I can’t keep up with all this spy stuff.” _With you_.

“You’ve just proven otherwise.”

“Sure,” Dean snorts. “By getting tied to a chair and—”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts. He tightens his grip on Dean’s hand. “I don’t know how you imagine real-life counterintelligence, but it’s not as glamorous as popular culture makes it out to be. Sometimes you get tied to a chair even if you’re a seasoned operative. Sometimes you go undercover and nothing happens for months. And sometimes you get to expose a criminal of Le Chevalier’s caliber, which is pretty much as good as it gets. I think it’s time you stop agonizing over what you could have done better and congratulate yourself on what you did.”

Dean gives a self-deprecating laugh and tries to withdraw his hand, but Cas holds on to it.

“I mean it,” he insists. “I’ve handled civilians before, and I know how people can react when thrust into this type of situations. I’m not indulging you when I say you’ve done well. And even before the auction – Dean, the way you defused that bomb was ingenious, and that was not the Intersect. That was all you.”

A quiet voice in Dean’s head tells him that he’s being appeased. A louder voice in Dean’s head screams, _You’ve impressed him._

“Still not sure I believe you, but thanks for the vote of confidence,” he murmurs.

Before Castiel can answer, an elderly man approaches the Nerd Herd desk, his arm curled protectively around a girl of 8 or maybe 10, his other hand clutching a smartphone. He seems distressed, almost on the verge of tears. The girl is wearing a light pink tutu.

“Can you help me?” the man asks. “I have – I must have done something terribly wrong.”

A little too fast to be casual, Dean lets go of Castiel’s hand. You never know with these older folks, but based on Dean’s experience, if someone’s over 60, it’s usually cloudy with a chance of homophobia.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man says, glancing back and forth between them. He must have noticed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you gentlemen.”

“Not interrupting at all,” Dean says, summoning his customer smile. “What happened to your phone?”

“It’s not my phone,” the man admits in a pained voice. “It’s my son’s. He gave it to me so that I could record my granddaughter’s ballet recital. He explained how to do it, but I must have clicked something wrong, because I can’t find the video. Can you please check?”

There isn’t much that can be “clicked” on the phone that lands in Dean’s hand, since it’s a pretty expensive smartphone with a touchscreen. A quick examination confirms his suspicions: there are no recorded videos with today’s time stamp. There is, however, a single blurry picture of a group of girls in identical tutus, caught mid-pose.

“I’m afraid you must have switched from video to camera mode, sir,” Dean explains. “So instead of starting a recording, you took a picture.”

The man looks so devastated at the news, Dean might as well have told him his house has burned down.

“So you can’t help me?” he checks, and now he really looks like he’s about to fall apart, his bottom lip trembling.

“There’s no recording for me to recover. I’m sorry.” Seeing the man cover his face with his hand, Dean adds, aiming for a comforting tone, “But I’m sure there will be other recitals in the future, right miss?”

The girl, silent until now, stares up at him with sad eyes. “But this was for Granny.”

The man composes himself long enough to explain, “My wife is terminally ill. She can’t leave her bed, so I promised I would record Lily’s recital for her.”

Dean takes in the twin miserable expressions on their faces, and makes a split-second decision. It’s not his responsibility to go beyond IT help – the man isn’t even a paying customer – but he can’t send them away like that, dismayed and defeated. He grabs the intercom microphone standing next to his elbow and switches it on. “All unoccupied employees, please report to the Nerd Herd desk immediately.” He clicks the microphone off and waves Lily over. “What dance did you do for the recital?”

“Just this routine we’ve been practicing.”

“Can you do it again?”

“Sure.”

“What song did you dance to?”

“I don’t know what it’s called.”

“That’s fine,” Dean says, and types _ballet music for kids to dance to_ into his YouTube app. The search returns almost too many results to choose from – truly, there’s nothing that can’t be found in the digital age.

Five minutes later, the setup is ready. Lily takes her position, the TV wall behind her and an audience of Buy More employees and random shoppers in front of her. Her eyes dart nervously around the crowd of strangers, but she breaks into a smile when they land on her grandfather. Off to the side, Dean gives her a thumbs-up.

“Okay, sweetheart, you ready?”

She nods.

“Knock’em dead,” Dean says, and hits play on the music.

He suspects that much like him, most of the employees witnessing this impromptu recital know fuck-all about ballet, and couldn’t tell a plié from a jeté if their lives depended on it, but they watch Lily with rapt attention the way Dean has asked them to. Once the dance is over, they give her thunderous applause, causing a pleased, albeit slightly embarrassed smile. Her grandfather wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, though first he makes sure to stop the recording under Dean’s supervision.

“Thank you so much,” he says, his voice watery.

“Don’t mention it,” Dean shrugs. He’s never been good at accepting gratitude. Lily sprints over to them, buzzing with excitement, and Dean high-fives her with a grin.

“How did I do?” she asks, breathless, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Spectacular,” Dean assures her. “Your grandma will love it.”

“Let’s go show her,” Lily pleads, tugging at her grandfather’s hand. “Let’s go now, grandpa.”

As the two of them disappear through the main entrance, Lily is still prancing around with joy. A solo performance like that, especially so warmly received, must be quite a confidence booster, Dean supposes.

Everyone in the store goes back to their own business, and Dean returns to the Nerd Herd desk, surprised to find Castiel still standing there.

“Thought you’d left.”

“If I’d left, I would have missed out on a perfect illustration of what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

When Dean only blinks at him, Castiel shakes his head with a sigh, like he can’t believe he needs to spell it out. “You’re a problem solver, Dean. You should give yourself more credit for it.”

“Aren’t all human beings problem solvers by nature?”

“No. Stop contradicting me.”

Dean’s mouth twitches in amusement. “You know I won’t.”

Rolling his eyes to high heavens, Castiel leans in for a goodbye kiss, placing a small peck on the side of Dean’s face.

“Just the cheek, huh?” Dean mutters. “You’ve changed your tune.”

“I don’t want to make this hard on you,” Castiel says, softly.

Like the over-thinking fool that he is, Dean spends the rest of his work day dissecting that sentence. No matter how he slices it, he always comes to the same conclusion: Cas is very much aware of Dean’s continuing attraction, and he’s trying to be kind about it.

Which sucks tremendously, because while Cas being a snack is something Dean can move on from relatively unscathed (blue-balled at worst), Cas being thoughtful and considerate, especially where someone might argue it hurts their cover, poses a danger Dean isn’t prepared to face.

* * *

“It’s time,” Charlie announces two weeks later. She takes a sip of her coffee – which she shouldn’t be drinking unless on a break, but Dean always lets her get away with it – and raises her eyebrows at him.

Dean tears his eyes away from the TV wall. “Time for what?”

“A trial run.”

Heaving a deep, martyred sigh, Dean swivels in his chair to face her. He knew this was coming, as inevitable as death and taxes. It’s like a law of nature: the sun rises in the east, sets in the west, and Charlie needs to conduct her trial run to check out whomever Dean is dating.

Here’s the thing about Charlie Bradbury: she’s cool, and she knows it. If you asked her about what makes her cool, she would probably give you a wide grin, point at her head, and say: “My nerd superpowers.” Alternatively, she would direct you to her carefully curated collection of DVDs, pop culture paraphernalia, and novelty T-shirts.

If you asked Dean the same question, he would say what makes Charlie cool is her sensitivity. She would smack him for it, but that wouldn’t make it any less true.

Dean would know, considering they’ve been best friends since high school. They didn’t have many classes together, but Charlie intrigued Dean enough that he started paying attention to her from the first day of their freshman year. She wore colorful tees with obscure references and ripped jeans that made teachers look at her askance; she smoothly switched to Klingon when she wanted someone to stop talking to her; she liked to sit on the bleachers to watch the cheerleading practice; and when one day some sophomore tried to ask her out and didn’t want to take no for an answer, Dean walked up to him and cracked his tooth. When he left the principal’s office, a stern talking-to and a detention later, Charlie had been waiting for him in the hallway. She handed him a Red Vine and said, “That was awesome, but don’t do that again. It’s Dean, right? You have a mean right hook.”

Charlie was weird, but Dean was too, more so than he let people see, and their weird turned out to be highly compatible.

Charlie was the first person Dean came out to. She was also the first person he told when he started dating Lisa.

“Lisa Braeden?” Charlie asked, scrunching up her nose.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Why, you don’t like her?”

“Not crazy about her,” Charlie admitted. “But that doesn’t matter if you are. Should we go out somewhere, the three of us? Maybe I should give her another chance.”

They went out together not once, but many more times after that, and Lisa didn’t manage to win Charlie over. When her and Dean broke up a few months later, Charlie – while doing her best to comfort Dean, including indulging in a late-night marathon of all Die Hard movies she hated with a flaming passion – didn’t pull out the “I told you so” card.

Their junior year, Dean started going out with a transfer student called Mick. He was new and shy and Charlie hadn’t had a chance to meet him, so when Dean told her they were dating, Charlie suggested an evening out.

“You feel like third-wheeling, Charles?” Dean asked with a grin.

“Why, did you sign us up for tricycle classes?”

Dean stuck out his tongue at her, and Charlie laughed, then admitted: “I just want to form my own opinion on this guy, Dean. I don’t know him, and your smitten ass won’t tell me anything unbiased.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll introduce you. But I’m telling you, he’s cool. You’re gonna like him.”

Charlie hadn’t, but Dean didn’t find that out until months after him and Mick split, and even that was by pure accident.

She had no interest in telling Dean who he should or shouldn’t date. She never outright told him to break up with someone or badmouthed anyone he was with. All she did was stand her ground as Dean’s best friend and offer him comfort food when his relationships fell apart. The only thing she always insisted on was a trial run – a get-together where she could meet the new person and form an opinion she would then keep carefully to herself. Sometimes she was wrong, too – after Cassie, she admitted she had thought she would be the one for Dean, just like he had.

It was only a matter of time before Charlie demanded a trial run for Cas. If he’s being honest, Dean’s surprised it took her that long.

Still, he has to try and stop this. The relationship is fake. There’s no point in having a trial run.

“You know Cas. He comes by all the time.”

“Yeah, to drag you away for a tête-à-tête. I want an evening out. Just the three of us, old school style.”

“Charlie…”

“You guys have been dating for over a month, so don’t tell me you’re not serious about him. I demand my trial run.”

Dean has no choice but to concede the point, so the next time Cas drops by the store, the three of them make plans for a Saturday outing. Dean’s equal parts curious to see if Cas and Charlie hit it off, and terrified of what happens if they don’t. They seem to be getting on rather well so far, but exchanging pleasantries is not the same as spending a whole night out together.

“Sorry I’ve roped you into this,” Dean says that Saturday evening, sitting down with Cas in the courtyard to wait for Charlie’s arrival.

“Don’t be. She’s your best friend, it’s only natural she wants to hang out.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “I just hope she doesn’t realize we’re faking our asses off.”

Cas shrugs. “I think we’ve been sufficiently convincing so far.”

“Only because you’re a good actor, and I’m…” Dean trails off, nearly breaking into a cold sweat at the thought of what he almost said. Mercifully, Castiel doesn’t push it.

“I appreciate the compliment, Dean, but it’s not acting as much as it is lying.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Tomayto, tomahto.” Then, he shifts, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Hey, Cas. Cas. Guess what.”

“What?”

“You know what that makes you?”

“What?”

“The _great pretender._”

Castiel blinks at him, stone-faced. “You know, Dean, I was shot in Monaco once and it was kinder than the delivery of this pun.”

“Oh, come on now. Don’t _pretend_ like it’s not funny.”

Castiel groans and turns away, though Dean could swear his shoulders twitch like he’s holding in a laugh. He racks his brain for a follow-up pun to test that theory, but before he can come up with anything, Charlie appears before them, wearing a turquoise romper and a wide smile.

“Hey, nerds. You ready for some quality time with me?”

* * *

She takes them to House of Dim Sum.

“You’re so predictable, Bradbury,” Dean tells her as they cross the street, the restaurant’s red-and-yellow lights spilling into the night some ten yards ahead.

“It’s called having a fixed taste, asswipe.”

“Charlie loves their dumplings,” Dean explains, and Cas nods. They’re holding hands – have been for a while, for Charlie’s benefit – and Dean is struggling to stop himself from enjoying it too much. It feels like the most natural thing in the world, the way their palms fit together. Dean is terrified of getting used to it.

“Just wait till you try them, Cas,” Charlie says. “You won’t find better ones even down in Chinatown.”

“I must say, I’m rather enjoying this trend of being fed good food every time I meet your friends or family, Dean.”

“Oooh, did Sarah make you her chorizo tacos?”

“She did. They were delicious.”

“Right?! I swear to God, if it weren’t for Sam, I would propose to that woman on the spot.”

“I’m sure he’s grateful for your magnanimity,” Cas says, and Charlie snorts.

“Guys,” Dean interjects, “not to harsh your buzz or anything, but I think they’re closed.”

“Oh no,” Charlie groans, stopping in front of the door. There’s a notice pasted on it, apologizing to customers and explaining that House of Dim Sum is closed tonight for a private party.

“But what about _our_ party?”

“It’s okay, Charlie, we can come another time,” Castiel assures her.

“No, no, no. I invited you for dumplings and you shall get dumplings. Come on,” she says, motioning for them to follow as she rounds the building and starts down a back alley plastered to its left side. “I know a dishwasher who works here, she’ll give us the dumplings to go. Her name’s Alice. Cute girl, by the way. We dated for a while.”

They slip into the kitchen through the backdoor and are instantly greeted by the smell and sizzling sounds of Chinese food. One of the cooks gives them a nasty look, but a young girl standing nearby at the sink drops her sponge into the soapy water and squeals, “Charlie!”

“So they’re exes?” Cas whispers to Dean as they watch the two girls hug, Alice’s hands leaving wet imprints on Charlie’s sides.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Dean whispers back. For as long as he’s known Charlie, she never broke up with anyone on bad terms. At this point, Dean is convinced it’s some sort of lesbian superpower he’s not privy to.

They wait while Alice pleads with the cook to prepare three extra servings of dumplings, and Dean’s eyes start to wander around the kitchen until they land on a middle-aged server laden with two plates full of spring rolls. There’s a tattoo on the inside of her left forearm, and Dean’s brain lights up like a Christmas tree at the sight of it.

“Cas,” he hisses. “You see that waitress? Her name’s Linda Tran, and she’s Chinese intelligence. Never set foot on U.S. soil before.”

“Are you—”

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure,” Dean snipes, tapping the side of his head. “It’s all here.”

“Well, what is she doing here?”

“No clue. Should we, uh… call this in or something?”

Castiel nods, phone already in hand and one foot out the door. “Give me five minutes.”

It turns out he needs even less than that. He’s back in no time, and Charlie doesn’t notice anything when she returns, holding up takeout bags in triumph. They take a short walk to the Mountain View Park, where Charlie immediately makes a beeline for the picnic area and claims one of the tables.

It feels weird to chat about their day jobs and movies and music while there’s a Chinese spy running amok in L.A., but Castiel assured Dean there’s no need to cancel their plans.

“I told Henriksen to dig around, see what he can find,” he explained after getting off the phone. “We might have to work on it through the night, but I took the liberty of assuming you’d rather not sleep for the next ten hours than disappoint your friend.”

He assumed right, of course.

And even despite the looming prospect of an all-nighter and further spy bullshit, Dean has a great time hanging out with Cas and Charlie. They stuff their faces with dumplings (scrumptious), Charlie shares some stories of their high school days (mortifying), and Cas admits he’s been anxious about tonight because he knows how highly Dean values her opinion (endearing).

It’s hard to say if that last bit was a ploy to get into Charlie’s good graces – Cas barely showed any fear in the face of imminent explosion, why would he be worried about the approval of his fake boyfriend’s best friend? – but either way, Charlie melts like butter in the sun. Before they part ways some two hours later, Dean already knows what her verdict is going to be.

“I like this one,” she whispers, hugging him goodbye. Then, she turns to Castiel and gives him a hug too. If she says something to him, Dean can’t hear it – though he would bet hard money it’s some variation of “be good to him or I’ll cut you”.

Not that a threat like this would coax more than an eyebrow lift from someone like Cas.

Once Charlie disappears safely inside her apartment, Dean and Cas take the short walk back. They don’t need to hold hands anymore, and Dean stuffs his into his jean pockets, a cold feeling settling in his stomach. Show’s over, back to business.

It’s nearing midnight when they knock on the door of Henriksen’s apartment.

“Took your sweet time,” he says instead of hello, and shoves a thick document folder into Dean’s hands.

“What’s that?”

“Your homework. All the info we have on Linda Tran, plus some random intel gathered in the past week around L.A. Read it and see if you flash on anything.”

“Can’t it wait till morning?”

Henriksen looks at him like Dean suggested cutting his limbs off. “One of China’s top spies arrives in L.A., we don’t know what she’s planning, and you want to take a nap?”

Dean’s tempted to say yes, but he does have a survival instinct, so he only allows himself a sigh before tucking the files to his chest. “I’m on it.”

Castiel offers to keep him company, but Dean doesn’t have the heart to ruin his Sunday. There’s no point in both of them losing sleep over this. Still, as Cas bids him good night and vanishes into the dark, leaving him standing in the silent courtyard, Dean immediately regrets his bout of chivalry.

* * *

He spends over three hours slaving over the files, but the Intersect stays silent and unhelpful. However, his handlers are undeterred, and the next day they politely inform Dean that he’s about to participate in his first ever surveillance operation.

“We’re gonna tail her and see if you flash on anyone she comes in contact with,” Henriksen explains, sending a menacing glare towards Andy, who looks like he wants to listen in on their conversation.

“Just to be clear, stakeouts are usually safe, right?”

“Don’t be a baby, Winchester. I’m here to cover your ass, aren’t I?”

Oddly enough, Dean does find that comforting. Henriksen might be a grump, but he’s done all in his power to protect Dean. Well, barring their first meeting. Dean chooses not to hold a grudge. “Should I bring something?” he asks.

“The computer in your head.”

“Come on, don’t be a dick. You know I’m new at this.”

Henriksen considers him for a moment, arms crossed against his chest. The contrast between his grave expression and his bright green sales rep T-shirt is comical.

“Stakeouts can be long and tedious. Bring a snack. Pee beforehand and don’t drink anything once in the car unless you really need to. As for entertainment, I’m sure you and Novak will find some conversation topic to bore me with.”

“That last bit aside, it sounds reasonable,” Dean admits. “Thanks, Vic.”

Henriksen scowls at the nickname. “Don’t push it,” he warns, though he doesn’t seem pissed off – at least not as pissed off as usual. He actually gives Dean’s arm a firm slap before going back to work, as big a gesture of physical reassurance as Dean has ever gotten from him.

His advice proves useful, too. Despite having eaten dinner earlier that day, Dean’s stomach begins to growl about twenty minutes into the operation, drawing an eye roll from Henriksen and an amused glance from Cas. Kicking his feet across the backseat of Henriksen’s new-yet-the-same SUV (does the NSA just have a bunch of them on standby in case one explodes?), Dean dives into his messenger bag and fishes out a packet of M&Ms.

“You want some, guys?”

“It’s a surveillance op, not a picnic.”

“Give him a break, Henriksen,” Cas says, helping himself to a handful.

“I thought he’d bring some proper fuel instead of candy.”

“I have some beef jerky, too,” Dean offers.

Henriksen’s reflection in the rearview mirror looks appeased. “Let’s have that, then,” he allows.

Dean might not have anything to compare it to, but his first stakeout is actually kind of fun. They eat their way through the M&Ms and beef jerky in no time, so Dean brings out chocolate bars and crackers. Cas asks him how Sam and Sarah are doing, Henriksen turns on the radio – with the volume low, but still – and soon it feels like they’re just hanging out instead of tailing a dangerous Chinese spy.

Until.

“Movement,” Castiel warns. Henriksen switches off the radio, and the three of them peer out the Dodge’s windshield. A long, jet-black limousine glides to a stop in front of House of Dim Sum’s main door, and a few minutes later a group of men emerge from the restaurant. They’re all orbiting an older man in a wheelchair; one of them helps him move into the car, another folds the wheelchair, and yet another places it in the trunk. The speed and ease with which they complete the whole routine betrays they must have done it dozens of times before.

“Who’s that guy?” Dean whispers. “I’m not flashing on him.”

“Lee Zhao, local businessman,” Henriksen says. “Owns half of Chinatown.”

“And there’s Ms. Tran,” adds Castiel. Dean follows his line of sight and sure enough, the server he saw last night slips out the employee entrance, wearing a dark jacket over her waitress clothes. She mounts a motorcycle parked near the mouth of the alley, puts on a helmet, and drives off after Lee Zhao’s limousine, swallowed by the dark.

“Uh, guys? Not trying to tell you how to do your job, but she’s getting away.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel tells him while Henriksen puts the car into gear. “You should always leave a 30-yard cushion from your target on the tail.”

“Even if it’s a tail on a tail?”

“Even if.”

They follow Lee Zhao and Linda Tran for about fifteen minutes, all the while keeping a safe distance from their targets. When the limo finally stops, it’s in front of a nondescript building that doesn’t look residential, but doesn’t have any business signs either. In the time it takes for Lee Zhao to get out of the car and into the wheelchair, Castiel takes out his phone and does a quick search based on their GPS coordinates. As inconspicuously as he can, Dean glances over Cas’s shoulder.

“It’s some kind of private poker club,” Castiel mutters. “It’s on our watch list as a potential meet-up spot.”

Dropping all pretense of subtlety, Dean leans over the front seat to squint at the screen. “That’s not Google.”

“Believe it or not, not everything can be found on the Internet, Dean.”

Dean’s not good at that whole puppy eyes thing – it’s more Sam’s jurisdiction – but for some reason, his pleading look has a desired effect on Cas, who sighs and tilts the screen towards Dean. “My phone is connected to the CIA database,” he explains.

“Holy shit,” Dean says. “Is that on a secure server, like in a cloud, or…”

“Stow it, nerd,” Henriksen cuts in. “She’s gearing up.”

He’s right. While Lee Zhao and his men have disappeared inside the building, Linda Tran has parked her motorcycle in a nearby alley and produced two guns from her saddlebag, bigger and longer than those Dean has seen Cas and Henriksen use so far. Despite the distance and the veil of darkness, he can just barely make out a red star in a white circle adorning the grip, and the Intersect flares to life at the sight.

“Guys, those are Chinese army issue pistols.”

“Heavy artillery, huh?” Henriksen says. “What’s she gonna do with those, assassinate Lee Zhao?”

“I think that’s likely,” Castiel admits. “We could call the police, but...” They exchange a look, and Dean already knows what he’s going to hear next.

“Yes, yes, I’ll stay in the car,” he sighs.

Once Cas and Henriksen are gone, the stakeout becomes decidedly less fun. Dean spends the first few minutes peering out the window, fully prepared to see some shit go down any second, but the street remains dark and quiet, not a single passer-by in sight. Soon boredom starts to creep up on him, so he pulls out his phone and fiddles with it to kill the time: checks his email, plays Candy Crush, and even scrolls through Instagram for a while (which he would never admit to).

He’s messing around with his brightness settings when he hears gunshots.

“Shit,” he says under his breath. “Stay in the car, Dean. They told you to stay in the car.”

More gunshots follow, muffled by the walls but unmistakable, and Dean is out on the sidewalk before he’s aware of what he’s doing. Cas and Henriksen can take care of themselves, sure. Even if they couldn’t, Dean can’t do much to help them. Besides, they would be livid if he barged into the middle of a shootout with “I was worried about you guys” as his only excuse. The problem is, he can’t play on his phone like nothing’s happening. He can’t _not_ do something.

Suddenly, the gunshots seem much louder. Somewhere, a door must have opened. Dean turns around and he sees none other than Lee Zhao himself, his arms spinning wildly as he rolls himself forward in his wheelchair, eyes panicked.

“Hey!” Dean calls out. “You need help?”

“Some maniac is trying to kill me,” Lee Zhao pants. “My limo, get me to my limo.”

Thrilled that he can be useful after all, Dean jogs up to him and pushes the wheelchair the rest of the way to the car. Luckily, Lee Zhao’s men are not far behind, and two of them take over before Dean can start to worry about the logistics of transferring the guy to the backseat. What’s not so great is that the other two appear a few seconds later with a tied-up man in tow, and proceed to throw him in the trunk.

“What the fuck,” Dean says. “Who is that?” He catches the man’s gaze – shit, he’s barely a man, Dean doubts he’s even hit legal drinking age – and what he sees in it is absolute terror.

Before he can fully process it, the car is already driving away and more gunshots ring out in the air, this time much louder and closer. He spins around in the direction of the noise, and immediately drops to the sidewalk, hands over his head. Linda Tran is charging at him (well, at the limo, but he’s directly in the way), two guns raised and firing continuously until the car vanishes behind the nearest street corner. She rounds on Dean in three quick strides.

“Are you with him?” she asks in a harsh, accented voice.

Still flattened against the sidewalk, Dean shakes his head. “I’m not, I swear. I was just trying to help an old guy in a wheelchair. I didn’t know—” He swallows, the tied-up man’s face resurfacing in his mind. “I had no idea he kidnapped someone.”

When he dares to look up, there are two guns aimed at his head, but Linda Tran deflates. “You idiot,” she says. “That man is Triad.”

“He’s what?”

“He’s Chinese mafia. And that was my son he took.”

“You came to rescue him,” Dean realizes, belatedly. “We thought—”

“Drop your weapons!” a new voice yells.

When Dean rolls over towards the source of it (his jeans are going to be disgusting after this, but there are way too many guns being waved around to go vertical just yet), he sees Cas and Henriksen approaching, their own pistols raised. _They don’t know about her kid_, he thinks. _They only see her holding me at gunpoint_.

“Guys, don’t shoot,” he calls out. “She was just trying to...” He peters off, because there’s a sound of quick, light footsteps, and before he can roll back to look, Linda Tran is gone. Not five seconds later, they hear the roar of the motorcycle’s engine as it shoots off into the night, carrying away the Chinese spy whose mission they’ve thwarted.

Except that’s usually supposed to be a good thing.

* * *

When Dean steps out of his apartment the next morning, tired after a sleepless night (he kept seeing that Tran kid’s petrified expression every time he closed his eyes), he bumps straight into his handlers.

“What are you guys doing here?” he asks, though he doesn’t particularly want to know.

“We just heard back from Washington,” Castiel says. He leans in for a kiss, murmuring “Neighbor at 10 o’clock” against Dean’s cheek as explanation. He smells _so_ good. Dean’s fists clench at his sides.

Beside them, Henriksen clears his throat and says, “Linda Tran’s story checks out. Her son Kevin is some kind of prodigy who pursues academic career in Beijing. Only 20 years old and already has a doctorate in physics. He came to L.A. to speak at a conference, and that’s when the local Triads grabbed him.”

“Why? What does he know?”

“Nothing. They just wanted to trade him for a Triad captain imprisoned in Beijing.”

“But the Chinese refused,” Castiel adds. “So Ms. Tran came here on her own, without authorization from her government.”

“Okay, and what about the wheelchair guy?”

Castiel shrugs. “The feds have long suspected he has Triad roots, but they were never able to prove it.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Go to work, slacker. I have some merchandise to move,” Henriksen says, much too chipper for Dean’s liking.

“Whoa, wait. What about Kevin?”

“The Chinese don’t care, why should we? He’s their citizen.”

“You can’t be serious,” Dean begins, but Henriksen waves him off and walks away, the conversation over.

“Cas,” Dean pleads, turning to look at him. “I watched that kid get stuffed in a trunk. And it’s our fault, we stopped his mom from—”

“No, it’s _her_ fault,” Castiel cuts in. “She went off the grid and disobeyed orders.”

“It’s her fucking kid! What was she supposed to do? I would do the same if it was Sam.”

“I understand why she took the risk. But it didn’t work, and we can’t start an international incident—”

“So you’re washing your hands, is that it?” Dean accuses, jabbing his finger at Castiel’s chest. “I thought better of you, Cas.”

A muscle in Castiel’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t even raise his voice when he says, “We can’t save everyone. It took me a while to come to terms with it, too, so take your time.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Dean snaps, and marches off.

He doesn’t give a flying fuck if saving Kevin would cause an “international incident” or whatever it was Castiel cited. He doesn’t care how much time, effort and resources it would require. He couldn’t worry less about whether or not the CIA, the NSA and the rest of these bullcrap agencies sign off on a rescue mission. As far as he’s concerned, the matter at hand is exceptionally black and white. Who the hell refuses to help an innocent kid kidnapped by mafia?

Heartless bastards, that’s who.

He can’t say he’s surprised by Henriksen’s attitude, but Cas—

Cas was supposed to be in his corner.

He barges into the Buy More like a storm cloud, aggressively cramming his bag into the locker in the employee lounge. He doesn’t want to take out his frustrations on his colleagues, so he spends most of the day biting his tongue and stomping down his anger. He avoids Henriksen like the plague, and doesn’t even consider dropping by Il Cono. Screw their cover. Screw this whole Intersect business. It was supposed to _help_ people.

“Had a fight with Cas?” Charlie asks him as she zips up her bag, preparing to head off for a home install in Magnolia Park.

“Kinda,” he mumbles. “Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“It’s a big step in a relationship, first fight,” Charlie points out. “Be classy, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Dean.”

He sighs. “Yeah, yeah. Now git. The computer won’t install itself.”

Charlie shows him the middle finger and strides off, the keys to the Nerd Herder jingling in her hand. Once she’s gone, Dean sinks deeper into his chair, feeling utterly defeated. He hates that he can’t tell her the truth. She would back him up, he’s certain of it. Why is it that people who enforce law have such a skewed sense of right and wrong, he wonders.

When the helpdesk phone rings, he answers it on autopilot. “The Nerd Herd, how can I help?”

“You can help me get my son back.”

Dean almost falls out of his chair. “Ms. Tran? Is that you? Listen, I’m so sorry—”

“Shut up,” she interrupts. “You blew my operation, so you owe me.”

He’s inclined to agree, but there’s one little problem. “I’m just a computer guy, Ms. Tran. I don’t have the resources to help you.”

“You have handlers, and they do. I’ve been watching you, Dean. By the way, you should straighten your tie.”

He looks down; his tie is askew. “How do you—”

“I have eyes on you, Dean. I suggest you take me seriously.”

Dean glances around, but he doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. It’s a slow day and the store isn’t crowded. Only a handful of people are strolling up and down the aisles, and Linda Tran is not one of them.

“Oh, I wouldn’t bother looking among the shoppers if I were you,” she says.

Well, that certainly adds a new level of threat to the situation, but Dean still can’t declare help Cas and Henriksen refused to offer.

“Ms. Tran, I really can’t—”

“Let me make this easier,” she says, a new, dangerous note in her voice. “The Triads have put a clock on my son’s life. He dies in nine hours unless I do something. Help me rescue him or you’re a dead man too.”

Dean’s hand begins to sweat around the receiver. He got so caught up in his own guilt, he forgot that Linda Tran is both a desperate mother trying to save her child _and_ a trained assassin. Not the greatest combination.

“Ms. Tran—”

“I’ll be in touch,” she says, and the line goes dead.

Dean’s brain kicks into high gear. There must be a way to make this work. There must be. The U.S. intelligence agencies won’t get involved because they have nothing to gain from a rescue mission. But if they did—

Dean grabs the intercom microphone.

“Victor Henriksen to the Nerd Herd desk, _immediately_.”

“What?” Henriksen asks, turning up half a minute later. He glances at Andy, who just came back from his lunch break, then mouths, “Did you flash?”

Dean shakes his head. “I thought you might want some ice cream.”

“I want ice cream,” Andy pipes up.

“You just finished lunch, dude. Man the helpdesk,” Dean tells him.

On their way to Il Cono, Henriksen tries to needle him for information, but Dean refuses to say anything until the three of them have sat down at a corner table of the empty parlor. Though slightly surprised at their arrival, Castiel doesn’t seem mad, and Dean decides to take it as a good sign.

“So listen,” he begins. “I’ve been thinking. A Chinese spy could be valuable, right?”

Cas and Henriksen stare at him blankly.

“What I’m trying to say is, if we convinced Linda Tran to give us some secret information on – you know, whatever it is she did for her government…”

“You mean defect?” Castiel supplies.

“Yeah, that. Like in _The Hunt for Red October_.”

“Good to see you’ve done serious research on this,” Henriksen comments. “But you know what? You convince her to defect, I’ll personally help rescue her son.”

Dean doesn’t get much time to celebrate his victory, because Castiel’s eyes narrow.

“Where is this coming from? We don’t even know where she is, or how to contact her.”

“She… she may have called me.”

“Called you?” Castiel repeats, brows furrowed. He leans across the table. “When?”

“Just now. At the Buy More. I think she might have been in the store, too. She said she had eyes on me, and she knew my tie was askew.”

“Fuck,” Henriksen says.

“What?”

“You’re not going back to the store until we’ve searched it,” Castiel says, in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

“I have work!”

“Not anymore. Stay here and wait for us.”

“Guys—”

Before Dean can argue his case, a loud clang comes from the parlor’s backroom. Cas and Henriksen exchange a look, and they both draw their guns. Dean watches, feeling once again absolutely useless, as they stalk around the counter, gesturing for Dean to stay put. They disappear out back, and Dean grabs the edge of the table, listening for gunshots. A few more times and he’ll start getting used to this. Some day. Maybe.

He’s so focused on anticipating the sounds coming from in front of him, he misses the light footsteps coming up behind him. The only thing that alerts him to Linda Tran’s presence is the press of her gun against his back.

“Did you make up your mind?” she asks.

“They agreed to help if you defect,” Dean says, raising his hands. Seriously, he’s going to become a pro at being held at gunpoint. Soon.

“Defect?” she repeats, sounding disgusted at the idea. Dean knows he’s treading on thin ice, but talking is the only thing he can do right now.

“I get that you’re loyal to your country, but they left your son for dead. They refused the ransom, right?”

“If I defect, I can never go back,” she says. There’s hesitance in her tone, and Dean latches onto it.

“Isn’t your son a scientist?”

“Physicist,” she amends.

“Physicist. A genius one, I’ve heard. He could probably have his choice of Ivy League universities right here in the good old United States. I know America sucks in some respects, but it’s a good place to start over, I promise. You could both move here. You could—”

“Let him go.”

Dean sighs, seeing Cas and Henriksen round on them with their guns aloft. Once again, he finds himself in a standoff where he’s the only unarmed person in the room.

“Say yes,” he urges. He turns a little to catch her eye over his shoulder, and she lets him. “Say yes and they’ll help.” He turns back around. “Vic, you said you’d help if she defected.”

Henriksen gives a slow nod.

“Cas?” Dean prompts.

Castiel looks at her, long and scrutinizing, then back at Dean. He nods, too. “I’ll help. Now let him go.”

Dean sits stock still, waiting for the muzzle of the gun to withdraw. Based on his pop culture knowledge, this is the moment when Ms. Tran is supposed to say “How do I know I can trust you?” and Cas or Henriksen are supposed to answer “You don’t have any other choice.”

Nothing of the sort happens. Linda Tran lowers her gun and says, quiet and determined, “All right. I’ll defect.”

* * *

Going in, Dean thinks they have everything under control. Despite racing against the clock, Cas and Henriksen somehow manage to obtain the floor plan of Lee Zhao’s estate and do a quick recon, which gives them an idea of what they’re heading into. According to Ms. Tran’s intel, her son is being held in the south wing of the residence (Dean considers asking where this mysterious ‘intel’ is coming from, but ultimately decides it’s probably best if he doesn’t know). Their main obstacle is Lee Zhao’s private army of security guards, but even here fortune favors them. It turns out that the cameras installed throughout the mansion are TKX-50s, older models Dean is familiar with after having done several installs a few years back. With the help of NSA equipment, he can access them remotely to loop the feed on the security monitors and guide Cas, Henriksen, and Ms. Tran through the residence so that they don’t run into anyone.

Gravity of the situation aside, he’s incredibly stoked to play with NSA tech. Plus, his heart swells at least two sizes when Castiel asks, “You can really hack it?”, and looks mildly impressed when Dean confirms.

When the time comes, Henriksen parks at a safe distance from Lee Zhao’s mansion and Dean settles in the back of their operations van, surrounded by a bunch of screens and advanced equipment. He’s under strict orders not to leave the van and drive away if the mission goes south, but he dismisses that scenario as unlikely. They have visual from the cameras, they have mics, they have guns, they’re dressed like the cast of Ocean’s Eleven, and taking it all in, Dean’s convinced they’re going to go in, kick some serious butt, save Kevin, and be home in time for dinner.

The first stage of the plan goes smoothly. After hijacking the cameras, Dean safely leads Cas, Henriksen and Ms. Tran through the mansion, in time alerting them to the presence of any nearby security guards. He mutters a quiet “damn” when he sees Castiel knock out one of them cold.

“I can hear you, Dean,” comes Castiel’s voice through the earpiece.

“I know. I stand by what I said.”

Castiel huffs a quiet laugh and continues inching down the corridor.

Then, out of the blue, the whole damn plan goes tits up.

As soon as Cas, Henriksen and Ms. Tran set foot in the south wing, at least a dozen guards come out of the woodwork, from behind armchairs, curtains, and tables. Dean has no idea how that’s possible – he was supposed to see everything on the cameras, but within two seconds, his team goes from undetected to surrounded and outnumbered.

Through the sudden panic that squeezes his throat, Dean whispers into the microphone, “Guys, I’m sorry. I didn’t see them. I swear they weren’t there.”

Castiel makes a quiet shushing sound, but other than that no one acknowledges Dean.

“I knew you’d come, Linda Tran,” says Lee Zhao.

He appears seemingly out of nowhere, quite a feat for someone bound to a wheelchair. Two men follow him into the room, dragging a tied-up Kevin between them. Dean’s field of vision is limited to where the cameras are aimed, but through his earpiece, he distinctly hears Linda Tran take a sharp breath.

“The Chinese government refused my final offer for your son,” Lee Zhao continues. “However, I’m hopeful they might be persuaded to change their mind, now that I have one of their top agents and two American ones to barter with.”

Paralyzed, Dean watches as Lee Zhao’s guards disarm and tie up the hostages, then drag them outside and stuff them into a white van. A van that, Dean realizes as he squints at the image from the driveway camera, has the House of Dim Sum logo painted on its sides. If that’s where they’re being taken, then maybe...

The words Castiel said to him less than an hour ago sound loud and clear in Dean’s ears.

_Should something happen to us, promise me you won’t do anything stupid. Don’t go in trying to rescue us. Don’t bargain with them. Don’t call the police. Just go home._

“Sorry, Cas,” Dean says, scrambling for the driver’s seat. “You can yell at me later.”

The white van rolls down the driveway and turns onto the street, looking for all the world like it just made a food delivery instead of serving as mafia’s temporary lockup for a Chinese-American rescue team.

Tailing Lee Zhao and his goons doesn’t prove as difficult as Dean feared, maybe because he did get a practical demonstration of how to do it only yesterday. Remembering Castiel’s advice, he makes sure to leave a 30-yard cushion and follows them undetected all the way to House of Dim Sum. Once there, Lee Zhao’s men push the four captives inside through the back entrance, and Dean abruptly realizes he has no follow-up plan. So he knows where they are. Great. Now what?

“A distraction,” he mutters to himself. “Something to lure them out.” He looks around helplessly, as if hoping the solution will appear out of thin air. The street around him is empty, but Charlie has been dragging him to House of Dim Sum for years, and Dean knows the neighborhood well. There’s a nail salon up ahead, a laundromat one block away, a tattoo parlor…

And then there are the street vendors selling fireworks.

He can already see himself losing all four limbs, but it’s the only plan he’s got, and anyway, he rushed in to defuse a bomb with less. Sending out thanks that he has enough cash on him, he buys an armful of fireworks from the first guy he finds. When he comes back, the white van remains parked near the restaurant, unguarded. Taking a deep breath, Dean sneaks up to it and checks that one of the windows is cracked open. It only takes a few seconds to light one of the matches the vendor gave him, set off the entire batch of fireworks, and dump it in the van’s front seat.

Once the fuse is lit, Dean scrams like his life depends on it (which it kind of does), and barely makes it around the corner of the building before the whole thing goes off in a sun-bright, deafening display. Just as he hoped, Lee Zhao’s men arrive within seconds to investigate the commotion. As stealthily as he can, Dean slips in through the half-open door, his back to the wall, and finds himself in the kitchen where this whole mess started. The room is empty – no wonder, Lee Zhao must have given his cooks a day off to conduct his evil, illicit operations in peace – but once Dean takes a couple of steps inside, he notices the whole gang bound and propped in a sitting position against the sinks.

Even with his wrists tied up and mouth gagged, Castiel manages to send Dean a particularly potent death glare.

“I know, I didn’t listen, I’m a disgrace,” Dean says, grabbing a knife and cutting them all free one by one.

“What did you do?” Castiel asks as soon as his mouth is free.

“I set off some fireworks to draw them out.”

“They’ll come back. Take Kevin and hide while we—”

The door bangs open.

Dean yanks at Kevin’s arm and they both go down to the floor, crouching behind a huge, industrial-grade freezer. A few gunshots ring out in the confined space before Castiel and Henriksen knock the guns out of the attackers’ hands, forcing them into hand-to-hand combat.

Movies always make fights seem coordinated and calculated, interspersed with perfect dodges and punches, choreographed to a T. The real thing is anything but; it’s inelegant, messy and violent. While it’s safe to assume most participants know some martial arts, it doesn’t translate into their technique at all. Pots, pans and knives are used, anything that lies around a potential weapon. At one point, Castiel slams a guy’s head against a metal shelf, and Dean stares at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. He almost misses it when Kevin asks him a question.

“What did you say?”

“I said,” Kevin repeats, “You don’t fight?”

“No, no. I’m the IT guy.”

Kevin raises his eyebrows at him, but Dean doesn’t feel like going into detail. He probably shouldn’t anyway.

Time passes differently when you watch people beat the bejesus out of each other, but the whole confrontation can’t last more than five minutes. The last of Lee Zhao’s men tumbles to the floor as Linda Tran smacks him across the head with a heavy clay pot, and the kitchen falls silent. Slowly, Dean and Kevin emerge from their hideout, taking in the carnage around them. Kevin only spares a brief glance around before running to his mother and starting to speak rapid-fire Chinese. Dean stands and stares. And stares. And stares.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks. He comes closer, stepping over a body like it couldn’t bother him less, and gently puts his hand on Dean’s left shoulder.

“I’m fine, Cas.”

“You ignored my instructions.”

Dean shrugs. “You’re welcome.”

“Nice job, Winchester,” Henriksen calls out from the other side of the kitchen, wiping blood from his brow. For once, there’s no sarcasm in his voice. “I’ll call a clean-up crew.”

“He’s right,” Castiel says, quiet enough that only the two of them can hear. “Though you shouldn’t have, you did save us tonight. Thank you.”

“I only set off some fireworks. You guys did the heavy lifting,” Dean says, motioning towards the bodies splayed across the kitchen. He hopes to God they’re just knocked out.

“That was quick thinking,” Castiel argues. “You need to stop putting yourself down.”

Dean doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he says nothing, watching the way Castiel’s hair plasters to his forehead with sweat. He wishes he could reach out and smooth it out, but there’s no one to fool here. When no one is looking, Cas is off limits.

“What happens now?” he asks instead.

“Now we wait for a team to show up and escort the Trans to a secure location. Then I take you home.”

Dean nods, suddenly feeling very tired. The adrenaline starts to wear off and the exhaustion catches up with him. Allowing himself a moment of weakness, he leans into the press of Castiel’s hand.

“Dean?” comes a voice from behind them.

“Hey, Ms. Tran,” he says. He shifts away, and Cas withdraws his arm.

“We just wanted to say thank you,” she says. Kevin nods vigorously at her side.

Dean musters up a thin smile. “Don’t mention it.”

“I insist,” she says, and extends her hand. Dean shakes it firmly (Mama Tran has a killer grip), feeling his smile turn more genuine. Say what you will about this shitshow of an evening; the final outcome is stellar. An innocent egghead has been saved, a Chinese spy agreed to defect to the U.S., and Dean proved he’s not as useless as Henriksen thinks him to be. All in all, not a bad day.

* * *

When Castiel insists on walking Dean all the way to the door, then asks if Dean wouldn’t mind his presence for a while longer, it comes completely out of left field.

“You wanna come in?” Dean asks dumbly.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms. His gaze lingers on the keys jingling in Dean’s hand before lifting to meet his eyes. “If it’s no trouble.”

Trouble is not the word Dean would use, but it’s curious that Cas would want to invite himself inside instead of calling it a night and heading home. They’ve both had a long day, and Dean himself is currently fantasizing about the warm embrace of his bed. He can’t find a good enough reason to turn Cas away, though.

They’re quiet while Dean unlocks the door and lets them in, switching on the living room lights. Sam and Sarah have gone out for the night – all the more reason why Castiel doesn’t need to be here. There’s no one to keep up appearances for.

“You want a beer?” Dean asks on his way to the kitchen. He rolls his neck as he throws the fridge door open, grabbing two Coronas and setting them on the counter.

“Thank you,” Castiel says. He watches Dean pick up a bottle opener and make quick work of popping the caps. He accepts the beer and they take their first sips in silence, not looking at one another despite standing close enough to touch.

“I don’t mean to impose,” Castiel says. “It’s been an eventful day and you probably want to sleep it off.”

“It’s fine,” Dean shrugs, even though Cas is absolutely right. “There something on your mind?”

“Yes.”

When Castiel doesn’t elaborate, Dean takes another swig from his bottle, intent on waiting him out.

The apartment is quiet around them, the usually unobtrusive ticking of the wall clock now thunderous in the absence of other sounds. Castiel thumbs at the label of his beer.

“You must think very poorly of me.”

Dean leans against the counter. “Why?”

“Our conversation this morning. I refused to take action.”

For the briefest moment, Dean considers dismissing the whole issue. He could shrug a shoulder, play it down, point out that Castiel did help out eventually. It’s done, and Dean is tired, and maybe it’s best to let it lie.

“Yeah, you did,” he says instead. “Kinda pissed me off.”

“And I don’t blame you. But you have to understand that I can’t rush to the rescue every time someone is in danger. Even if it’s an innocent bystander and it would be the right thing to do.”

“Why not?” Dean asks, the words coming out harsher than he intended.

“I’m not a vigilante, Dean. I’m a government employee. When they tell me to stand down, that’s what I have to do.”

Dean runs his finger around the lip of his bottle. “I thought the whole point of this job was to stop bad things from happening.”

“On a larger scale, yes.”

“Oh, so collateral is fine.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice. He puts his bottle on the counter and takes half a step forward, popping right into Dean’s personal bubble. His eyes shine in the low light, wide and imploring. “I’m not asking you to excuse me. You’re allowed to think it’s deplorable, but someone still has to do it. And I want you to know that just because I choose to be that someone, doesn’t mean it doesn’t eat away at me.”

Relief feels like the wrong reaction to Castiel’s words, but there it is anyway. Dean hasn’t even realized that’s what he was afraid of – that Cas genuinely didn’t care, that he didn’t consider Kevin worth saving. He breathes easier with the knowledge it’s not the case.

“I thought you didn’t give a shit,” he mutters.

“I figured as much,” Castiel says wryly.

“So you’re just good at hiding it?”

“The best.”

Dean hums. That shouldn’t come as a surprise, really.

“You don’t have to do it with me, though, Cas. In fact, I like you much more now that I know you’re not a hammer.”

Castiel smiles. “Do you?”

“Sure. Fake or not, I appreciate having a boyfriend who’s not a total tool.”

“That’s a very low bar.”

“And yet you almost tripped over it,” Dean retorts, smirking when Cas rolls his eyes.

For a second, it feels like the tension has broken. Like they’ve wrapped up the serious talk, emerging safely on the other side, and Cas is about to pull back, finish off his beer, say his goodbyes.

He does none of those things.

Staying firmly in Dean’s space, he looks up at him with heart-wrenching earnestness and says, “For the record, I’m glad you stepped in. The CIA crowd favors a rather cynical approach to the matters of morality, and it has rubbed off on me more than I’d like. The longer I do this, the more the lines get blurred. Seeing you be so certain about where they lie, I—”

He breaks off suddenly, letting his eyes flit away as he clears his throat. “I’m sorry. What I meant to say is, thank you for keeping me accountable, Dean.”

Driven by some irresistible urge, Dean reaches out to tip back Cas’s chin and make them lock eyes again. He panics midway there, remembering they’re alone and he has no right to touch Cas like that, so he ends up covering his aborted move by grabbing Cas’s arm instead. That’s allowable; safe.

“Anytime you need an attitude check, I’m here,” he jokes weakly.

Cas smiles at him, small but genuine, and all at once Dean realizes he’s in deep, deep shit.


	5. The Alma Mater

Their reprieve after closing the Tran case lasts over a month – a quiet, mundane, perfect month. Dean’s job is what it is (he has long since lost hope of seeing any improvement there), but he can’t complain about his private life. Despite Sarah’s crazy hospital schedule and Sam’s heavy workload, not a week passes by without a get-together at their place. Charlie, always a frequent visitor, is now more often than not joined by Cas, who becomes a welcome addition to their little family. The longer they hang out, the more everyone is taken with him. He comes as the fifth (sometimes fourth, if Charlie can’t make it) player for game night, and while Cas’s knowledge of board games is basically non-existent, he’s a fast and eager learner. He picks up the rules with ease, whether it’s a straightforward game like Ticket to Ride or a monster like Magic Realm. He’s so good at strategizing that they manage to win Pandemic in a 4-player setup for the first time since they bought the damn game.

Even Henriksen drops by once, invited by Sam after they run into each other in the courtyard one day. It’s a fun evening, that one; Henriksen spends almost half an hour talking to Sarah about bonsai tree care and maintenance.

“We all have different ways of dealing with the stress of the job,” Castiel explains quietly as Dean refills his wine glass. “Though I admit I wouldn’t have guessed Victor turns to indoor plants for solace.”

Dean laughs so hard he spills the wine on the tablecloth.

“What do _you_ do?” he asks, curiosity peeking through the amusement in his voice.

Castiel shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink, so naturally Dean spends the rest of the evening coming up with increasingly inane theories. The more tamer options include Sudoku, watercolors, pottery, and basket-weaving. By the time Dean walks Cas to his car at the end of the night, the selection has extended to water-skiing, ping-pong, improv, and belly-dancing.

“You know I won’t stop until you tell me,” Dean says when Cas heaves a dramatic sigh at the last suggestion. “Might as well get it over with.”

“I’ve been trained to withstand torture. Do you really think I can’t handle your guesswork?”

“Is it knitting?”

Castiel unlocks his car and throws the door open. “No.”

“Decoupage?”

“Dean.”

“Oh, I got it! Coloring books. I can totally picture you slouching over some mandalas. Or, _or_, maybe you’re the type who goes for crosswords. Like, those insanely difficult ones—”

Reaching over the open car door that separates them, Castiel covers Dean’s mouth with his palm to shut him up, and Dean’s brain short-circuits.

He can feel the salty tang of Cas’s skin against his lips and see the half-hearted exasperation drain from Cas’s eyes as the moment shatters around them. It’s nearing midnight and the air has turned cold, but Dean’s face burns like it’s on fire.

Slowly, Castiel lowers his hand to his side. He shifts on his feet, looking a little lost. When he speaks, there’s no teasing edge to it. “It’s so simple, I’m surprised it wasn’t one of your first guesses.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, and clears his throat when it comes out strained.

“Yeah.”

Dean doesn’t dare prompt him again. He waits, frozen on the sidewalk with his heart working double-time in his chest.

Castiel gives him a self-conscious smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. They’re such a stunning shade of blue in the dimmed lamplight, Dean couldn’t look away if he tried.

“I bake,” Castiel says. “Mostly desserts. I find it calming.” He glances up and down the street, no doubt a professional habit, then back at Dean. “I hope I didn’t disappoint?” he adds, a hint of playfulness back in his tone.

Gratefully, Dean picks up the thread. “Not at all. It suits you, actually. Cas Novak, CIA agent by day, baker by night.”

“It’s officer,” Castiel corrects him.

“What?”

“CIA agent, that’s Hollywood’s idea. We’re not spies either, for that matter. The CIA refers to its operatives as officers.”

“Shit, really? I always thought – you know, with FBI agents and all that…”

“Different agencies prefer different nomenclature. I’m a CIA officer. Henriksen is an NSA agent. It varies.”

“You learn something new every day,” Dean muses.

“I’m glad I could expand your horizons,” Castiel says gravely. He leans in to place a quick peck on Dean’s cheek – their standard greeting and goodbye at this point, universal enough to fit all scenarios whether they have to keep their cover or not – and gets in the car.

Dean watches him drive away, the phantom press of a warm palm still against his lips, and he yearns like he hasn’t in years.

* * *

On a breezy afternoon mid-spring, Sam walks into Dean’s room and says, “Sarah and I are taking a trip to Stanford.”

Dean looks up from his laptop. He’s been looking for an apple crumble recipe, and there are about thirty tabs open in his browser. “Stanford? What for?”

“Football.”

“Sam, it’s offseason.”

“There’s a spring game on April 13th,” Sam explains. “A bunch of our friends are going, so we thought it could be a good excuse for a reunion. Besides, we both need a weekend off.” A pause. “You could come, too.”

Dean snorts, and goes back to his research. He clicks on one of the recipes and scrolls down to see the list of ingredients.

“I’m serious, Dean. I think this could be good for you.”

“In case you forgot, I don’t have fond memories of the place.”

“That’s not true.”

The recipe calls for Calvados, and that shit can be expensive. Dean clicks through to the next one.

“Dean,” Sam says gently. “I know it ended on a bad note, but before that, you had a great time at Stanford.”

“Bad note?” Dean repeats angrily. “They kicked me out for something I didn’t do.” He stares at the screen, and realizes he didn’t register a single ingredient he’s just read.

“And you still haven’t made your peace with it. It’s time to heal, Dean. Especially now that you have Cas. Come with us and say goodbye. Sarah thinks – we both think it would do you good to close that chapter of your life and move on.”

“It would do _you_ good to stop psychoanalyzing me and mind your own business.”

Sam raises his hands in surrender. “It was just an idea.”

“Well, a stupid one,” Dean grumbles. “I ain’t going anywhere near that school.”

Thankfully, Sam doesn’t push it. He leaves Dean to his recipes, and neither him nor Sarah bring up the subject again. Sarah does mention that should he change his mind, he can join them even at the last minute, but she doesn’t try to pressure him. Dean appreciates it.

Although he’s determined not to go, his thoughts begin to stray towards Stanford surprisingly often in the wake of his conversation with Sam. He finds himself thinking back to random events from his time there, college friends and frat parties, orientation day, paintball games, camping out in the library to cram for the Mathematical Foundations of Computing exam, grabbing coffee from that blue food truck each Wednesday on his way to the calculus class… And woven through each memory is Michael Milton’s face, handsome and smiling. Always in his corner. Always ready to bitch about their course load, or stay up late in their dorm eating potato chips, or go out and be Dean’s wingman.

Dean never understood how it happened, especially since they were still hormonal teenagers when they first met, but despite both of them being bi, they never hooked up. It was actually Michael who introduced Dean to Cassie, and he was a saint when it came to steering clear of their shared room on nights the two wanted some time alone. He even developed a simple app for it so that they could track the time each of them spent hogging the room and keep it fair. (Cassie thought it was weird. Dean thought it was hilarious.)

The onslaught of memories puts Dean in a nostalgic, brooding mood, and a couple of days later he gives in to the temptation. He dives deep into his closet, standing on his tiptoes to reach the farthest corner on the highest shelf, and pulls out a plain brown cardboard box. It has a dent on the side and a layer of dust gathered on top, but it’s taped shut, so its contents should be fine.

Sitting cross-legged on his bed, Dean cuts through the tape with his scissors and pulls the flaps apart. An assortment of random knick-knacks stares back at him from inside the box. He takes them out one by one, slow and careful, trying to ignore the growing pit in his stomach.

A library book he forgot to return. A coffee mug with the Stanford logo. Two movie tickets from one of his first dates with Cassie. His old planner. A Nintendo-shaped keychain he got from Michael for his 22nd birthday. A dried-out face paint kit they used when the Cardinal played their first game of the season at the Stanford Stadium. A crumpled receipt from a café on campus, with some guy’s number scribbled on the back (“Aaron. Call me.”). A baseball cap. A creased Polaroid of him, Michael and Cassie, Dean in the middle with his arms slung around both of them. His student ID, a younger version of himself grinning at him from the photograph—

Images snap into place so abruptly, his breath gets stuck at the back of his throat. He gapes at his own face in the grainy picture, his brain scrambling to make sense of what he’s just seen.

“No fucking way,” he says, loud in the empty room. He snatches his phone from the nightstand, almost dropping it in his haste to hit speed dial. He doesn’t bother with a hello; as soon as Cas picks up, he cuts straight to the chase.

“Cas, I just flashed. On myself.”

* * *

“Tell us exactly what you saw,” Castiel says. They’re gathered in Henriksen’s living room, Cas sat on the couch while Dean paces back and forth in front of him. Henriksen is the only one that seems unperturbed by the news. He’s perched on the armrest on Cas’s left, sipping his glass of whiskey like he couldn’t care less about this whole thing.

Dean scrubs a hand across his face. “I saw my own goddamn picture. Why does the CIA have a file on me?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says, slowly. “As far as I could tell, you didn’t appear on the CIA radar until Michael sent you the Intersect.”

“Same with the NSA,” Henriksen chimes in, taking another swig from his tumbler.

“There’s more,” Dean continues. “Does the name Project Omaha mean anything to you?”

“Sounds vaguely familiar,” Castiel mutters. “I think I heard about it once or twice. It’s classified though. Military projects always are. I’ll check, maybe I have clearance to access it.”

“There was also a name,” Dean plows on, determined to get it all out as fast as possible. He crosses his arms against his chest, chin down, and stares at his boots. “Frank Deveraux.”

“Haven’t heard of him,” Henriksen says.

“Me either,” Castiel adds.

“Well, I have,” Dean says glumly. “He’s the one who kicked me out of college.”

“Wait, so what’s the connection there?” Henriksen asks, frowning. “I don’t get it.”

Dean sighs. God, he wishes he didn’t have to delve into this, but there’s no way they’ll let him off the hook.

“Dr. Deveraux was my professor at Stanford, he taught psychology and symbolism. I was acing his class, got almost a perfect store on the test. And then he called me to his office to say that my roommate had found the test answers under my bed, and that the punishment was immediate expulsion.”

“Cool story, but why is _he_ in the Intersect?”

Dean throws Henriksen a nasty look. “Because he’s a CIA recruiter.”

“That makes sense,” Castiel says, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his phone.

“It does?”

“Yes. The CIA recruits on campuses across the country. A professor would be in a perfect position to vet potential candidates. Excuse me, I need to make a phone call.”

Castiel disappears inside Henriksen’s bedroom and comes back a few minutes later, his expression as inscrutable as always. “They confirmed it,” he announces. “Franklin Deveraux has been working with us for years, recruiting candidates for various sensitive projects. I wouldn’t be surprised…” He trails off, his eyes turning vacant.

“What?” Dean asks, impatient.

Castiel shakes himself off. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who recruited Michael. The timeline checks out.”

Dean sags to the couch. He doesn’t understand anything anymore. Does everyone in his life have a connection to some intelligence agency? What’s next, Charlie’s FBI? Sarah’s an undercover DEA agent? His own brother works for Homeland Security?

“Okay, kids, let’s gather all the facts,” Henriksen says. His tumbler clinks as he puts it away on the coffee table. “Number one, Winchester’s in the Intersect. That means someone put him there. Number two, his old professor is a CIA recruiter – a guy who provides information about his students to the CIA. You see where I’m going with this?”

Dean does, but something still doesn’t add up. “But why would he bother telling the CIA about me?”

“You said it yourself, Dean,” Castiel says. “You were one of his most promising students. Maybe he was planning to recruit you. He put you on the list, started a file…”

“And then he caught me cheating,” Dean finishes, voice hollow. “Right. That tends to put a damper on things.”

Castiel watches him carefully, as if weighing something in his mind. “You know, it’s still just a theory. And as experience tells us, the bits and pieces you see in your flashes can be deceiving.” Oh, Dean knows _exactly_ where this is going. “So if you want solid answers…”

“Don’t say it.”

“…you should consider joining Sam and Sarah on their trip.”

“Cas,” Dean groans.

“It’s your decision,” Castiel says, and Dean can feel the _but _coming from a mile away, “but I think we should go.”

“We?”

“Yes. I see nothing but advantages to such a scenario. We go on a trip together as a couple – it’ll strengthen our cover. We have no cases and nothing better to do in the meantime. Once professor Deveraux finds out you’re with the CIA now, he’ll be more inclined to provide you with answers he might not have been able to give you before. You’ll make Sam and Sarah happy. And last but not least… aren’t they taking the Impala? You keep telling me how you miss driving her.”

That is a low blow if Dean’s ever seen one. He can’t deny that Cas makes a strong argument, though.

“I hate this,” he mutters, and continues to mutter unhappily as they leave Henriksen to his whiskey and bonsai trees, walking back to Dean’s apartment. Distractedly, Dean says goodbye to Cas and kisses his cheek, forgetting to feel awkward about it for the first time since they started this whole charade.

He spends the next two days agonizing over the trip, trying to come up with excuses as to why he shouldn’t go. In the end, it’s for naught. The simple truth of the matter is that paying professor Deveraux a visit and asking for an explanation is the best course of action. And Dean really, _really_ wants some answers. Maybe professor Deveraux knows why Michael turned him in. Maybe he can tell them what Project Omaha is. Castiel ran a quick search in the CIA database the day after their meeting at Henriksen’s, but it returned no results. Whatever Project Omaha is, it’s above his paygrade.

That makes Dean even more curious.

“Fine, I’ll go,” he announces gravely over breakfast on Thursday. “But Cas is coming with me. And you’re not allowed to gloat.”

To Sam and Sarah’s credit, they don’t.

Early in the morning on April 13th, the four of them pile into a freshly washed and waxed Impala. The night chill is still in the air, but the sun has already peeked over the horizon, bathing the sky in muted hues of orange and pink.

Heaving a deep, contented sigh, Dean slides into the driver’s seat. He must look as happy as a pig in mud right now. “Hey, girl,” he coos, petting the steering wheel affectionately. “Missed me?”

“She couldn’t function without you,” Sam snorts from the backseat.

“Shut it. Sarah, you all comfy back there?”

“Growing up, my dad owned a Mazda, so this is like the Ritz. I could put a table in here.”

“And yet Sam will start to complain about lack of leg room in…” Dean makes a show of looking at his watch. Sometimes it still trips him up that he’s wearing a piece of CIA high-tech on his wrist. “…an hour, tops. That’s when his giant limbs start to get stiff.”

“Just drive,” Sam grumbles. Dean grins, putting the key into ignition and coaxing the engine to life. God, has he missed that purr.

“Doesn’t she sound pretty?” he asks, glancing to his right.

“Definitely sounds like a car engine,” Castiel says. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, and the top two buttons of his navy blue polo t-shirt are undone. Both of these facts are causing Dean a great deal of dismay.

“This car is wasted on you heathens,” Dean mutters as he pulls out onto the street. “Never mind. Onto the I-5 we go.”

It’s a five-hour drive upstate to Stanford, and Dean insists on being the only driver the entire way. He hasn’t had a chance to watch the asphalt roll away under Baby’s wheels in months. Now that he has her familiar leather under his palms, Sam and Sarah chatting in the back, and Cas at his side, smiling at him softly across the bench, he never wants the road to end.

* * *

They arrive on campus with almost an hour to spare before the game, and since Dean and Cas aren’t going to the stadium, the two couples split. Sam loops his arm around Sarah’s waist and they vanish first, wishing Dean and Cas a “fun memorial tour”, whatever the hell that means.

If they think Dean is going to take Cas to one of his old makeout spots, so help him God—

“Are you okay?”

Dean looks up sharply. “Yeah, why?”

“Being here again, it must be a lot.”

“I’m okay.”

He’s not. Everywhere he looks, he sees younger versions of himself and Michael, or himself and Cassie. There isn’t a square foot of this campus that doesn’t hold a memory of one or the other.

“Let’s go find the professor,” he says stiffly.

Even after six years, he manages to find Dr. Devereux’s office without taking a single wrong turn. The door is closed, but when Dean raps his knuckles against the dark wood, they hear a gruff “Come in”.

The inside of the office looks just as Dean remembered it. A small bookcase, a wide oak desk, and a chair Dean sat in when he was told his adventure with Stanford was over. Professor Devereux himself hasn’t changed much either. He peers at Dean through his black-rimmed glasses, pen poised over the papers scattered in front of him.

“Yes?”

“Hi, professor,” Dean says. “My name’s Dean Winchester. Do you remember me?”

Professor Devereux squints at him, waving him over closer. Dean can pinpoint the exact moment he realizes who he is.

“Well I’ll be damned. Our disgraced student returns.”

Dean grits his teeth. They’re off to a great start.

“And you have company,” professor Devereux adds, looking over Dean’s shoulder. Castiel steps up to the desk, back straight and chin up.

“Castiel Novak, nice to meet you. We were hoping you could help us, professor. Do you know a place where we could go grab a quick bite?”

Dean gawks. _What?_

Professor Devereux frowns, and when he speaks, the words come out slow and cautious. “I do, provided you like Thai food.”

Dean looks between them like they both lost their minds.

“We would prefer Italian, but Thai will do,” Castiel says.

To Dean’s utter amazement, professor Devereux stands up and grips Castiel’s hand in a firm handshake. “So you’re both with the agency, huh?”

Way too late, Dean’s brain catches up. It’s a freaking code phrase, _Jesus_.

“Yes, and we have – well, Dean has a couple of questions for you,” Castiel says. He gives Dean an encouraging nod and sits down in one of the chairs. Dean falls onto the other, while professor Devereux retakes his place on the other side of the desk, his fingers steepled in front of him.

“I, um,” Dean says lamely. He hasn’t thought this through, and he has no idea where to even begin. “You’re a recruiter, right?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever… considered recruiting me?”

Professor Devereux gives him a weird look. “Didn’t they tell you after you joined?”

“Tell me what?”

For a moment, the office is deadly silent as professor Devereux studies Dean with sharp, assessing eyes. Dean’s heart lodges itself in his throat.

“I have been recruiting CIA operatives for almost ten years, Mr. Winchester. I send the names of all top-scoring students to the agency, so they can do a background check. Do you remember the last test you took in my class? The one with a separate section on subliminal image recognition?”

Dean nods, unable to utter a word.

“You had the best result out of the entire class. I was amazed, to be honest. The keywords you wrote down correlated to over 98% of images in the test. I’d never had a student who could retain so much subliminal information. When I reported it to the agency, they immediately put you on the recruitment track for Project Omaha.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean notices Castiel shift ever so slightly in his chair.

“I had already arranged to have an interview with you when Michael Milton showed up in my office. I had recruited him earlier – a very promising student as well. Apparently you told him about the high score you had gotten on the test, and he came to me worried that I would rope you into CIA work. I confirmed.”

“Worried?” Dean croaks. His fingers curl and uncurl restlessly in his lap.

Professor Devereux watches him over the edge of his glasses. “When I revealed to Mr. Milton that you were wanted for Project Omaha, he tried to dissuade me from going through with your recruitment. He argued you were, shall we say… not cut out for this kind of work. He believed a military project like this would—”

“Break me?”

“No. That it would get you killed. Remember, at that point Mr. Milton had been with us for over a year, so he had a sufficient understanding of what it took to do this job. He was adamant you mustn’t be put in the field. Unfortunately, I had already set everything in motion, and I knew the agency wouldn’t give up a candidate that showed such promise. Mr. Milton came up with a solution.”

Dean doesn’t need to hear it. He doesn’t need to have it spelled out for him to understand what happened. He listens anyway.

“He reasoned that the only way the CIA would let go of you would be if you were caught cheating. It would invalidate your test results, and your candidacy would be immediately dismissed. He took care of everything: planted the answers under your bed, alerted the administration, circulated the rumor that you were selling the answer key to other students – believable, I’m afraid, since you were a scholarship student and Stanford is an expensive school. He even made sure a civilian member of university staff was present during the room search to authenticate the whole setup. The rest you know.”

Dean’s chest constricts to the point of hurting.

All this time, he suspected Michael of the worst possible motivations. Envy. Malice. Spite. He couldn’t fathom a single justifiable reason why his best friend would want to destroy his reputation and his future in one fell swoop. He marinated in resentment towards Michael for years – for nothing.

Michael was trying to protect him.

A gentle touch to his knee startles him, and he looks up to see Castiel’s searching eyes. If Dean didn’t know any better, he would say they’re slightly red-rimmed.

“I’m okay,” he declares, unbidden. He stands up on shaky legs, stuffing his hands deep into his jacket pockets. “Thank you for clearing things up, professor.”

“Not at all. For what it’s worth… I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester. Truly.”

“Thanks,” Dean deadpans. At least one of them said the magic word. Michael’s dead now, so that ship has sailed.

They leave Dr. Devereux’s office in silence, both deep in their own thoughts. Not a word passes between them until they reach the quad and sit down on a lonely bench shaded by an elm tree. Even then, it takes Dean full five minutes to speak.

“I thought it would make me feel better. Knowing the truth.”

Castiel doesn’t answer.

“Maybe I should feel offended that Michael didn’t think I could make it in the CIA,” Dean adds after a moment. “I mean, _he_ could handle it, why couldn’t I?”

Another lengthy silence stretches between them with no comment from Castiel. At the tail end of it, Dean finally turns to look at him.

“Cas? You with me?”

“Yeah,” Castiel mutters, though his thoughts are clearly somewhere else.

“Hey,” Dean says, leaning down to catch Cas’s eye. “What are you thinking?”

Shaking himself off, Castiel sits back and gazes up at the pastel blue sky, clear save for an occasional cloud drifting past. It’s the perfect weather for a game. The stadium lies too far away to hear the cheers of the crowd, but the first half should have started by now. “I’m thinking a lot of things.”

“Like?”

“Like, we finally know why Michael sent the Intersect to you of all people. He knew your ability to retain information. He knew your brain could handle it.”

“Big deal. I bet yours could too. Why didn’t he send it to you?”

Castiel shakes his head. “You keep doing this, Dean. Every single time.”

“Doing what?”

“Underestimating yourself. I might not be an expert, but it’s pretty clear that any attempt to transfer such a humongous database into an average person’s brain would turn them into a vegetable. Myself included. You were wondering why Michael chose you – now you know.”

“So I was the only sucker among his Facebook friends with a brain absorbent enough. Awesome.”

“That, and he trusted you.”

“To guard a database he stole from the government,” Dean scoffs. “I’m honored.”

“Perhaps it’s not that simple.”

When Dean raises an eyebrow in question, Castiel lowers his gaze. The avoidance of eye contact is so unlike him, it weirds Dean out. “What?” he prompts. Jesus, but is this like pulling freaking teeth.

“If Michael had a reason to have you expelled, then maybe he had a reason to steal the Intersect, too.”

Dean lets that idea wash over him for a moment. Then for a moment longer.

Then, something occurs to him.

Castiel is desperate to find proof that Michael was not rogue.

“You cared about him, huh?”

Castiel’s eyes snap up to Dean’s face. “Why do you say that?”

Dean’s lips twist into a wry smile. “You’re great at pretending, Cas. In the time I’ve known you, you’ve been faking your heart out in almost every aspect of your life. But the second Michael is mentioned, you slip up.” Suddenly, a new thought hits him, so horrible Dean almost wishes he hadn’t stumbled onto it. “Shit. You were more than work partners.”

Castiel bows his head, eyes fixed on his own intertwined fingers, and that’s answer enough.

Dean’s stomach churns.

He’s such a moron. He should have realized that those two would be exactly each other’s type. Michael might have leaned more towards girls, but he had _eyes_, dammit. Dean can’t imagine anyone capable of feeling attraction to men being immune to Cas. And with the kind of work they did, how could they have not fallen for each other?

His mind supplies him with images of Castiel and Michael in various scenarios from the past months: staking out an arms dealer at an art auction, both ravishing in their suits; chasing after a rogue scientist in a sleek, fancy car; fighting side by side against Chinese mafia, their eyes meeting across the room. Handsome, skilled, deadly. The definition of a power couple.

It’s not like Dean had a snowball’s chance with Cas to begin with, but this pretty much eliminates any possibility of anything happening between them. All this time he’s been bitching about Michael being an asshole, getting him kicked out of school and stealing his girl, while unbeknownst to him, Castiel has been mourning the loss of not just a partner, but a friend and a lover.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” Castiel says. He still won’t lift his eyes. “At first it wasn’t relevant, and then… I suppose I thought it would complicate things.”

Well, he was right, Dean will give him that.

Besides, now that Dean thinks about it, Cas did tell him. Sort of. On their first date, Cas said the reason he had moved to California was a bad break-up. Granted, he omitted the more pertinent details, but Dean would argue that having your partner commit treason and then die is a pretty fucking spectacular end to a relationship. If Dean had history like that, he certainly wouldn’t go around blabbing about it on first dates.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Cas,” he mutters.

At last, Castiel looks up at him. His eyes are dry, but more vulnerable than Dean’s ever seen them.

“Michael and I worked together for almost two years, Dean. He was the best partner I’ve ever had. Dedicated, capable, loyal. He always had my back. I can’t believe he would steal the Intersect and send it to you for his own nefarious purposes. I can’t – I _don’t_ believe it.”

“Well, I didn’t want to believe he would stab me in the back, either.”

“That’s the whole point. He didn’t.”

Dean says nothing. So Michael wanted to shield him from the harsh reality of working for the CIA, fine. It doesn’t explain everything.

Doesn’t explain Cassie.

The wind blows in from the east, and if he strains his ears, Dean can almost hear the faint roar of the game in full swing. He gazes across the familiar quad, and wonders what would have happened if Michael hadn’t taken it upon himself to protect him. Maybe he would have graduated as planned. Kept dating Cassie, married her. Or maybe he would have broken up with her to pursue Project Omaha. Maybe he would be here today too, enjoying the game with Sam, Sarah and a significant other.

Or maybe he would have been killed in the field by now, like Michael.

He takes a deep breath, then releases it in one long, slow exhale. It’s a moot point. It’s over, done, buried. Sam was right, as loath as Dean is to admit it. The time is ripe to close the Stanford chapter and move the fuck on with his life.

He turns to Cas, summoning a smile to his face.

“We still have plenty of time to kill until the game wraps up. Would you like a campus tour?”

Tentatively, Castiel smiles back at him. “I would.”

* * *

It’s not as awkward as Dean has feared.

Cas lets him lead the way through the campus, across squares, quads and courtyards. They stop by the Memorial Church, with its impressive, colorful façade; the White Memorial Plaza, where a fountain sprays droplets of water into a fine, cooling mist; the clock tower, its clunky silhouette jutting out into the sky above them as they study the old clock mechanism displayed behind a glass.

Halfway through, Dean begins to feel as if they’re on vacation together. Castiel seems to have regained his spirits, smiling at Dean from behind his sunglasses as they make their way across Meyer Green to sit down for a bite in a nearby café. They share a cheesecake, and Dean teasingly asks if Cas thinks he could bake a better one.

“Of course,” comes a breezy reply.

“You’re awful confident of your skills.”

“Why wouldn’t I be,” Castiel shrugs, taking a sip of coffee. “I know my strengths.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean grins. “Guns, hand-to-hand combat, pastries?”

“Something along those lines.”

“Just to be sure: you do realize one of those things is not like the others?”

Castiel frowns. “Remind me?”

Dean throws his head back and laughs.

It shouldn’t be this easy, falling back into their established back-and-forth. Both of them would be more than justified to clam up and spend the rest of the trip in heavy, oppressive silence, too shaken up to enjoy it. And while thoughts of Michael still vie for Dean’s attention, they’re pushed back further and further with every passing minute.

He’s devoted way too much of his time to wallowing in self-pity, dissecting Michael’s motivations and reliving his own expulsion. He doesn’t have the patience for this anymore. He doesn’t want to stare into the past inhabited by ghosts when the present offers him an afternoon in Cas’s company.

In an odd way, he feels content, and he doesn’t realize why until much later, when they’re speeding down the I-5 back to Burbank. In between bouts of laughter coming from the backseat and loud requests to change the radio station (“In your dreams, Sam. You know the car rules.”), Dean can’t help casting furtive glances at Cas, his profile illuminated by streetlights and headlights of passing cars. He looks tired, but not unhappy. He looks— peaceful.

Dean blinks as his brain finally connects the dots.

Castiel is glad Dean knows. He wanted to tell him, to come clean about this whole messed-up situation. Why would he admit it otherwise? He could easily have stuck to the story that him and Michael were just colleagues. After all, he’d been so adamant about not sharing any details of his private life before. And this is more than some trifle like his home town or his coffee order; this is _huge_. It’s painful and crushing and close to his heart, and he trusted Dean with it.

The sky has turned a deep mat black by the time they roll into Burbank, the city lights blinking at them as they take the exit off the highway. Dean drops Sam and Sarah off at home first, murmuring something about wanting a moment alone with Cas, and then it’s just the two of them in the Impala, driving through the dark streets with the radio on low.

“Do you regret going?” Castiel asks after a few minutes of silence.

Dean re-adjusts his grip on the wheel. “No.”

He can feel Cas’s eyes on the side of his face, so he resolutely keeps his own on the road ahead.

“So it helped?”

“I— yeah, I think so. I mean, I’m still saddled with the Intersect, but at least now I know why. That’s something. And I had fun, too. With you. I mean, showing you the old digs and – yeah.”

“Me too,” Castiel says, softly.

Dean’s heart is going to burst clean out of his chest.

There’s no traffic to speak of at this hour, so they make it to Castiel’s apartment complex in record time. Dean parks at the curb and kills the engine, the car falling silent as the radio shuts off.

“Thank you for the lift,” Cas says. His hand moves to the door handle, but Dean can’t let him go just yet.

“Wait.”

Cas’s eyes snap to his, expectant. “Yes?”

With a creak of worn leather, Dean shifts across the bench until he’s close enough to take Castiel’s left hand in his. This might be a terrible idea, but it’s also something that needs to be done.

He swipes his thumb over Castiel’s knuckles and takes a calming breath.

“Look, we both have complicated history with Michael. Lots of bad blood, lots of unanswered questions. You don’t understand why he would go rogue, I don’t understand why he would hook up with my girlfriend. Maybe we’ll never know. Regardless, we used to care about him, right? Maybe not in the same way, but we did. When you told me he was dead, I—” His voice wavers, so he clears his throat before continuing. “Anyway. I just wanted to say… because I have a feeling you haven’t heard it from anyone… I’m sorry.”

Gripping Castiel’s hand tighter, Dean peers through the darkness that envelops the car, searches for those familiar blue eyes. Offers, again, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

At first, Castiel doesn’t react. He sits motionless, his hand heavy and limp in Dean’s hold, and stares like he doesn’t know what to do.

Then, just as Dean starts to suspect he may have broken him, Castiel squeezes his fingers back. He uses their joined hands to pull Dean closer, scooting up the bench to press his lips against Dean’s cheek, a thank-you disguised as a goodbye.

“You know,” he murmurs, his breath tickling the shell of Dean’s ear, “I have never met anyone like you.” Pulling back, he catches Dean’s eye. “I understand now why Michael wanted to keep you away from the agency. You’re just… You’re too good for this.”

Dean would argue that offering condolences to someone who lost a loved one constitutes common decency rather than a sign of some higher morality, but he says nothing. Reluctantly, he loosens his hold on Castiel’s hand and lets him go, waiting until Cas’s silhouette vanishes behind the glass door to the lobby.

Castiel is wrong. Dean is not too good for this. What he is is a petty, smitten asshole who’s jealous of a dead man.


	6. The Old Flames

April turns into May, and the lilac shrubs outside Dean’s window explode with flowers. One evening, Sarah makes an offhand comment about how beautiful they are, and the next day Sam almost snaps his finger clean off while cutting down the blossoms with kitchen scissors. When Sarah comes home from her hospital shift, she finds a lilac bouquet sitting in a vase on the table and a Band-Aid on Sam’s index finger. Dean makes himself scarce pretty soon after that, but not before witnessing the exchange of a very soft kiss.

Inexplicably, the sight hits him like a ton of bricks. He hides in his room and tries to tamp down the ache that rises in his chest, the scene still vivid before his eyes: a genuine gesture rewarded with a genuine reaction. Something small, and thoughtful, and real.

Very few things in his life feel real these days.

He exists inside a never-ending game of pretend. He pretends he doesn’t have a computer in his head. He pretends he’s in a happy relationship. He pretends he doesn’t tense with anxiety when the news report comes on the radio or the TV. He pretends he’s satisfied with his day job. He pretends he doesn’t loathe the little in-between moments when Castiel slips in and out of character, taking hold of Dean’s hand before they go out in public and dropping it as soon as they’re alone. He pretends he doesn’t mind that Michael got a taste of something Dean never will.

On the bright side, the next couple of Intersect missions are decidedly less dangerous than the previous ones, and involve much fewer bomb explosions, kidnappings and gunfights. Around the middle of May, Dean flashes on a counterfeit 50 dollar bill, which leads to the apprehension of a money-laundering philanthropist billionaire. Early into June, he does a computer repair at the Hilton and flashes on the list of guests staying at the hotel, which alerts the CIA and the NSA to a meeting between Russian arms dealers.

In both cases, Dean’s contribution to the cause is limited to reporting on his flashes and staying in the surveillance van, which suits him just fine. He’s more than happy to let Castiel and Henriksen do their thing while he sits on the sidelines and doesn’t get involved with anyone Cas refers to as “person of interest”.

The third time, he’s not that lucky.

* * *

Dean has no idea why he agreed to this. When Sam first suggested a double date, Dean’s only reaction was a derisive snort. Double dates are, without a doubt, one of the worst inventions of the 21st century, along with crocs, Instagram influencers, and live action remakes of Disney movies. You either want to spend time with your significant other or hang out with a group of friends – in Dean’s opinion, the ridiculous middle ground of double dates serves no purpose other than two couples trying to outdo each other in PDAs.

Sam doesn’t give it a rest, though. He bides his time like the traitor that he is, and the next time Cas comes over for game night, he springs the question on both of them – and Castiel agrees before Dean can utter a word of protest.

“It’s good for our cover,” he explains when Dean confronts him about it.

“Our cover is fine!”

“Can’t be too careful.”

And so on Saturday night, Dean finds himself seated in a bar booth next to Cas, their knees bumping under the table.

Now, it’s not like Sam and Sarah are all lovey-dovey with each other. Compared to some other couples in the bar, they act almost subdued. A less attuned observer could very well miss it, but to Dean, every gesture is like a bright neon sign, telegraphing loud and clear what he should be doing with Cas. They can’t sit two feet apart when Sam’s and Sarah’s shoulders are touching; they can’t keep their hands to themselves when Sarah starts absent-mindedly playing with Sam’s fingers while they wait for their drinks.

As casually as he can, Dean drapes his left arm over the booth’s backrest, letting his fingertips brush against Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel shoots him a look like he’s a complete idiot and grabs Dean’s wandering hand in his own, resting them both properly on his shoulder.

Dean wishes he could let himself enjoy it. Take advantage of the situation, pull Cas closer, wrap his arm around his waist, give him one of those super casual, light kisses that couples sometimes share without thinking much about it. That’s what Sam and Sarah would expect; that’s what anyone watching two people on a date would expect. Castiel knows this. Castiel would let him.

Dean withdraws his hand. “Gotta go to the bathroom,” he says by way of apology. “Be right back.”

Castiel gets up to let him out of the booth, and Dean forces himself to power walk instead of straight-up running away. There’s no one in the men’s room when he enters, which is just as well; he won’t have to lock himself in a stall to cool down. He puts his hands on either side of the sink and leans forward to study his reflection in the mirror. His face appears a little pale under the artificial fluorescent lighting, but his outfit more than makes up for it – dark jeans, wine red dress shirt, carefully styled hair. He dressed to impress, as if it was an actual date, and he knows he looks good. More than one pair of eyes turned to him as he walked into the bar tonight. If he wanted to, he could probably leave here with a girl on his arm.

The sitch is, he doesn’t want to. Even if he weren’t forced to maintain the pretense of his fake relationship, he still wouldn’t want to. There is only one person in this bar he would like to take home, and they’re untouchable.

“Fuck,” he tells his reflection.

“Fuck,” it agrees.

He turns on the tap and washes his hands, slowly and methodically in a pathetic attempt to delay the inevitable (It’s disease prevention, okay? Gotta be thorough to get rid of those germy little fuckers). On his way back to the table, he passes by a bulletin board mounted on the bar wall. It’s covered in overlaying postcards, posters, and fliers. Still desperate to stall, Dean pauses in front of it, his eyes scanning over the clutter of names, titles and pictures until they land on a galaxy-patterned poster.

**Club Delirium**

**Feat. DJ Ruckus + Blue Day**

**Friday June 14th**

**Start at 20:00**

“Ugh,” he groans, taken off-guard as the images in his head flare and fizzle out. That’s the worst thing about the flashes. Not the sensation of things snapping into place inside his brain. The unpredictability of it.

As he walks back to the booth, it occurs to him that for the first time this evening, the whole boyfriends cover might actually come in handy. When Sam, Sarah and Cas notice his presence, he smiles and slides into his seat – and then he acts before he can psych himself out of it. He cups Castiel’s face, tilts it slightly, and pretends to kiss his cheek.

“I just flashed,” he whispers, angling his head so that Sam and Sarah won’t see his mouth move. “A smuggler.”

He feels rather than sees Cas’s subtle nod, and they separate – Castiel cool as a cucumber, Dean’s ears burning like the fiery pits of Hell.

“Who said romance was dead,” Sarah smiles.

Sam doesn’t comment, but his smirk speaks for itself. _God_. If only Dean were half as happy as they think him to be.

“We should be going,” Castiel announces ten minutes later, downing the last dregs of his beer. “It’s already late, and Dean promised to walk me home like the gentleman that he is.”

Another lie that sounds like the truth. Dean would totally walk Cas home if he thought Cas wanted him to.

A round of obligatory we-should-do-it-again’s and we’d-love-to’s later, Sam and Sarah disappear down the street, leaving Dean and Cas standing on the sidewalk in front of the bar. Dean drops his arm from where it’s been resting awkwardly around Castiel’s waist.

“So, about that flash,” he begins. “There was a poster in the bar, advertising some kind of event at Club Delirium. The owner of that club is Cole Trenton, have you heard of him?”

Castiel shakes his head.

“Well, according to the Intersect, on top of running several night clubs in the L.A. area, he’s also a shipping magnate suspected of smuggling. That’s all I can tell you, but I think you should probably look into him. Or… I don’t know. Do whatever it is you do.”

“I’ll call it in.”

Dean nods and rubs the back of his neck. “Do you… do you want me to walk you home then?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I can take an Uber.”

Dean grits his teeth. “I didn’t ask if you’d manage on your own. I asked if you wanted me to walk you home.”

Either the lights pouring in from the bar are playing tricks on him, or surprise flashes across Castiel’s face.

“Oh. I suppose I would like that, yes. Do you mind if I make the call while we walk?”

Dean shrugs a shoulder.

There isn’t much he can glean from listening to Castiel’s side of the conversation, so he lets his eyes and thoughts roam. He wonders why Cole Trenton would risk going into the smuggling business when he already owns a bunch of successful night clubs. How much money he’s making off of his illegal activities. What he would do if he knew that Dean Winchester, a washed-out IT guy, just lit a fire under his ass.

“They’ll call me back as soon as they know something,” Castiel says, pocketing his phone. “It’s a good thing you saw that poster.”

“Yeah, thank God I have a small bladder,” Dean mutters.

Castiel gives him an assessing look. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.”

“You don’t sound peachy.”

“Well what am I supposed to say?” Dean snaps. “I just spent the whole evening lying to my family through my teeth. Maybe that’s par for the course for you, but it makes me feel like shit. They like you, Cas. They think we’re happy together. What happens when all of this ends? You said you guys are rebuilding the Intersect computer. Once it’s ready, I’m redundant, right? You don’t need me anymore, and we go our separate ways. You get shipped to fucking Pakistan or wherever, and I stay here with tons of explanations to do. To everyone. Can you imagine how they’re gonna react when I tell them my perfect boyfriend, whom they all adore, broke up with me?”

“You can say it was the other way round.”

“That’s not the fucking point, Cas.”

“What is your point, then? What do you expect from me?”

“I expect you to understand how difficult this is for me. I expect you to stop— stop acting like—”

“Like what?”

_Like you want me. Like you fucking care. _Dean shakes his head vehemently. He doesn’t voice either of those things; instead, what comes out of his mouth is, “Is this going anywhere?”

“This?”

“This. Us. Do we have any future at all?”

There’s some kind of emotion building behind Castiel’s eyes, but Dean can’t identify it for the life of him. It keeps shifting like patterns in a violently shaken kaleidoscope, switching from regret to doubt to longing to annoyance.

“Dean, you’re my asset. Any personal entanglements would compromise me as your handler.”

“So that’s a no,” Dean says flatly.

“You knew this,” Castiel reminds him. “You knew this was a cover.”

“Well, knowing and understanding ain’t the same thing.” Dean turns his head away, chews on his lip until it’s raw. There’s one last question left to ask, since their walk turned into honesty hour, apparently. “What if you weren’t my handler? Would we have a shot?”

Castiel glares down at the sidewalk like it murdered his entire family. A muscle in his jaw jumps. “I don’t know.”

_Bullshit_, Dean thinks, but says nothing.

They stay silent the rest of the way, careful not to let their eyes meet or shoulders brush. Once they stop at the door of Castiel’s apartment, Dean offers a stiff “Night, Cas”, only to be rewarded with an equally wooden “Goodnight, Dean.”

The hallway is dark and no one’s watching, so they don’t bother with a goodbye kiss.

* * *

The next morning, Dean is woken by a knock on his bedroom window.

The knock itself isn’t anything out of the ordinary, since Charlie likes to announce her presence that way on days when they carpool to work. Dean doesn’t remember making plans with her for today, but maybe his memory is giving up on him. However, when he disentangles himself from the sheets and hobbles to the window, rubbing sleep from his eyes, it’s not Charlie’s face that greets him.

“Henriksen?” he says, cracking the window open.

“Rise and shine, brainiac.”

Dean shoots a glance at his wall clock. “Dude, it’s 6 a.m.”

“Yes it is, and I have news. You know that club owner you flashed on last night?”

Dean nods. He’s long since stopped wondering how Cas and Henriksen exchange the intel Dean feeds them.

“We put some surveillance on him, and Novak’s going to his club tonight to plant bugs. Luckily Trenton likes to hang out in his own establishments, so it won’t be difficult to approach him.”

With these two sentences, Dean is suddenly wide awake. “Is that safe?”

“Spying on a smuggler?” Henriksen snorts. “Yeah, like a Sunday picnic. Relax,” he adds, seeing Dean’s face. “Novak’s a pro, he’ll be fine. Anyway, thanks for the tip, Intersect. We’ll keep you posted.”

True to his word, Henriksen shows up at Dean’s window the very next morning, his knock equally impatient and the hour equally barbaric. Dean groans as he rolls over, fumbling for his phone to check the time: it’s 5:49 a.m, otherwise known as the ass crack of dawn. Jesus Christ, will the American government just let him sleep?

“What?” he barks, leaning across the window sill.

“The surveillance op paid off,” Henriksen says without preamble. “We learned that Trenton is expecting a volatile package coming from abroad. The cargo is time-sensitive, and considering Trenton’s ties to the Middle East, that can mean a weapon. We’ve got a SWAT team ready to intercept and disarm it if necessary.”

“That’s... good, I guess,” Dean says, stifling a yawn. He’s going to be dead on his feet at work today. “Let me know how it goes.”

Henriksen promises that he will, so Dean mentally prepares himself for another early wake-up call tomorrow.

He doesn’t have to wait that long, though. Around midday, just as he’s doing some mind-numbingly boring paperwork, two people appear at the Nerd Herd desk: one in a green T-shirt, one in a light blue polo.

“Home theater room, now,” Henriksen says.

“Can’t your update wait until I’m done with this?” Dean asks, shuffling his papers without looking up. “I’m really hoping to have it all done by lunch, so—”

“Dean,” Castiel says, and the tone of his voice is enough to immediately make Dean glance up.

Castiel looks horrible. White as a sheet, mouth drawn into a tight line, fingers of his left hand twitching like he’s trying to stop himself from clenching them into a fist.

Dean puts his pen down. He has never seen Castiel so distressed before. “What’s wrong?”

Neither of his handlers says anything. Instead they head for the home theater room, leaving Dean no choice but to follow. Once there, Henriksen draws up all the curtains to shield them from prying eyes, then turns to Dean.

“You might wanna sit down for this.”

Anxiety mounting, Dean falls back onto the couch.

“We secured the shipment,” Henriksen tells him. “But we were wrong to assume it was a weapon.”

“You said it was time-sensitive, right?”

Dean is genuinely proud of himself for remembering that particular piece of information, since he was half-asleep for the majority of his morning conversation with Henriksen.

“It was time-sensitive because its contents were alive.”

Dean blinks. “Come again?”

“We got a human transport container on our hands, Winchester. It needed to be delivered on time because the amount of oxygen inside was limited.”

Dean frowns. If you ask him, this entire story sounds like something out of a bad post-apocalyptic sci-fi where people get put in cryochambers. Then again, his own life sounds like a bad spy movie, so he has no moral high ground here.

“So there was a human inside?” he asks. “Livin’ and breathin’?”

“You bet. Well, in a medically-induced coma, but livin’ and breathin’ alright. And you’ll never guess who it was.”

When Henriksen doesn’t elaborate, Dean turns to Cas, who hasn’t said anything other than Dean’s name since he came into the store. Now, he wraps his arms around himself in an oddly defensive gesture, the harsh overhead lighting emphasizing the bags under his eyes. Things have been a little strained between them since double date night, but seeing him so rattled, Dean wouldn’t object to putting their disagreement on hold.

“Cas?” he prompts, aiming for a comforting tone. “Who was it?”

Castiel closes his eyes and releases a slow exhale. A sense of foreboding settles over Dean, growing stronger with every second of silence. Cas is not one to beat around the bush. When he has something to say, he says it. The way he’s visibly pulling himself together to speak sends the alarm bells in Dean’s head ringing.

“Come on, out with it,” Henriksen says impatiently.

Castiel’s eyes fly open, and he glowers at Henriksen like he would smite him if he could. Still, his gaze softens when it flickers to Dean. “It’s Michael,” he says. “He’s alive.”

* * *

“I don’t understand,” Dean says for what feels like the thousandth time in the span of two hours. He looks down as Castiel pins a visitor pass to his shirt, next to his Nerd Herd name tag. The woman at the desk waves them towards the elevators and says, “Seventh floor.”

As far as top-secret CIA facilities go, this one is rather plain (not that Dean has any point of reference). There’s nothing but white as far as the eye can see: white floors, white walls, white lights blinking down at them from the high-raised ceilings. The sterility of the whole building is giving Dean the creeps.

“I don’t understand,” he repeats. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“It does not,” Castiel agrees as they wait for the elevator.

“Cas, you told me he was killed. Didn’t you yahoos check?”

“He was shot in the chest,” Castiel says stiffly. “A CIA team disposed of the body. That’s all I know.”

“Looks like it didn’t stick, huh?” Henriksen comments casually from behind them.

“Well, isn’t he conscious now?” Dean prods. “Can’t you ask him how he survived?”

“He won’t talk. That’s why we’re bringing you in.”

Dean shakes his head with disbelief. “You think he’s gonna talk to _me_?”

“Yes.”

“Cas, if he didn’t talk to you, why on God’s green Earth would he—”

“He doesn’t know I’m here.”

Well, this just keeps getting better and better. Once they crowd into the elevator and the doors slide closed behind them, Dean slouches against the mirrored wall. When he woke up this morning, his plans for the day involved four things: work, dinner, TV, sleep. Finding out that his old college buddy – who just so happens to be his current fake boyfriend’s real ex-boyfriend (which, _what_) – has risen from the dead was not on the fucking list. He was already nervous at the prospect of confronting Michael for the first time in six years, especially considering the revelations of the Stanford trip. Now that a potential reunion scene between Michael and Cas is on the table, Dean has to fight an overwhelming urge to bolt.

He expects to be ushered into some sort of interrogation room where they cuff people to the table, but the door Castiel leads him through opens onto a small, narrow space equipped with nothing but a few chairs. A one-way mirror covers the entire wall on the right, providing a look inside the adjacent room – and there, on a hospital-like bed elevated to an almost upright position, is Michael.

Slowly, Dean walks up to the glass. “He can’t see me?”

“No.”

The years have been kind on Michael. He’s always been a looker, with dark hair he would constantly ruffle and sharp jaw he would religiously shave. His face used to be full of boyish charm, youthful and expressive. The face Dean’s looking at now is that of a grown man, first lines beginning to show around his eyes and across his brow. Somehow, it suits him – hell, it makes him even more attractive. He looks like a guy who’s lived a life you want to hear about.

“What do I do?” Dean mutters against the glass.

“Just talk to him.” In his peripheral vision, Dean sees Castiel move closer, reaching out to touch Dean’s elbow with the lightest pressure. “Try to find out what happened. What he remembers.”

Michael doesn’t look like he remembers anything. He stares ahead with a blank expression, both hands trapped in restraints at his sides. He’s not hooked up to any medical equipment though.

Dean can feel his own heartbeat in his mouth as he leaves Castiel and Henriksen to walk a few steps down the hallway and stop in front of the door to Michael’s room. He makes an aborted move to knock before he realizes how ridiculous it is.

The door clicks as it opens and then closes behind him. Michael doesn’t even blink at the sound.

“Michael?”

Tentative, Dean approaches the bed, gulping at the sight of a metal tray laden with an assortment of phials and needles, some gauze and a reflex hammer. Perhaps they’ve put him on a tranquilizer.

“Michael, it’s me. Dean. Dean Winchester?”

Finally, Michael’s eyes slide over to him. They’re not as vacant as Dean expected. In fact, they sweep up and down Dean’s body in an eerily familiar fashion, quick and assessing.

“I don’t believe you,” Michael says. His voice hasn’t changed at all.

“Bummer,” Dean mutters. He turns to the mirror, instinctively seeking help from Cas, but he’s only met with his own reflection. Jesus, he looks spooked to Hell and back. “Listen, I know you got shot and put in a box or some shit, but that’s no reason to lose your marbles. You know who I am.”

“You’re not Dean. He’s a civilian. This is a CIA facility.”

“Buddy,” Dean says, starting to lose his patience, “I know we had a grand old time reading those comic books in college, but aren’t you a bit too old to believe in clones?”

Suspicion flickers across Michael’s face. “Which ones?”

“What?”

“Which comics?”

“Oh, uh. I dunno. The Amazing Spiderman? There was that time Warren made a Gwen Stacy clone. Kind of a messed-up story. Entertaining, though.” Dean frowns. “I spilled Gatorade all over that issue.”

Michael sits up straighter, a small disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “It is you.”

“Yeah. And I have a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”

Michael does mind, and he has questions of his own. “Did you open it?”

“I—”

“My e-mail, did you open it?”

“Yes, you fucker, I opened it,” Dean grits out. Figures that the first thing Michael does after returning from the grave is talk over him. “Care to explain why you decided to ruin my life? Oh, and while you’re at it: how are you alive?”

Michael grimaces, poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek in a painfully familiar gesture. If Dean had any doubts, that would settle the matter: it _is_ him. Alive, alert and – by the looks of it – in some deep shit.

“It’s complicated,” Michael hedges.

“I have time,” Dean deadpans.

Michael throws him a weird look. “Okay,” he says, slowly. “But I’ll only tell you. No one else.”

“Absolutely,” Dean agrees, with no intention of keeping whatever Michael tells him to himself. He leans closer – _idiot_ – and the next thing he knows, he’s in a headlock with a syringe pressed against his throat.

“Sorry, bud,” Michael whispers against his ear. “I have to get out of here.”

“You fucking asshole,” Dean snarls, because it’s all he can do with the tip of the syringe digging into the soft flesh under his chin. One small push and Dean gets spit-roasted – and _not _in the fun way. Behind him, he can hear Michael shake loose the other restraint, and a chill runs through his veins when he realizes Michael must have freed himself long before Dean came in, waiting for the right opportunity.

The cavalry bursts into the room seconds later, and while Dean is growing really damn tired of having to be rescued, he breathes easier at the sight of them. Henriksen’s face is a mask of professionalism and hostility; Castiel looks like he’s never been more determined in his entire life.

“Let him go.”

Although Dean can’t see Michael, he can hear his sharp intake of breath and a rushed, “Cas?”

This is officially Dean’s worst nightmare.

“Let him go,” Castiel repeats, making a jerking motion with his gun. He doesn’t have a clear shot, with Dean in the way, and they all know it.

“You’re gonna let me walk out of here, Cas,” Michael says.

“Am I?”

“Yes. Otherwise I pump him” – he tightens his arm around Dean – “so full of sedatives he’ll go into a seizure before he hits the ground. You might be able to save him, you might not. Wanna gamble?”

Castiel’s jaw ticks. “You’re not going to do it.”

“Novak,” Henriksen hisses. “He’s rogue. He’ll do anything to bust outta here. He’s not the priority, the Intersect is.”

“Wise words. Now, get out of the way,” Michael orders, pushing Dean in front of himself. Keeping his back to the wall, he drags them down the corridor to the elevators, Dean stumbling in his grip as he struggles to angle his neck away from the syringe. Cas and Henriksen follow them like shadows, guns aimed but useless.

“You’re a dead man, pal,” Dean says as he’s hauled into the elevator. The door slides closed behind them, and the tip of the syringe withdraws.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Michael says grimly. He steps back and runs a hand through his hair. “By the way, you knew I wasn’t gonna hurt you, right?”

“How the fuck would I know that?” Dean growls, massaging his neck. He spins around to look Michael in the eye, anger bubbling up in his throat. “You already have, multiple times. And call me crazy, but you turning on the CIA doesn’t exactly boost my confidence in your morals.”

“I haven’t turned on the CIA,” Michael bites out. “I’m not rogue.”

“Well, you’re doing a real shitty job proving it.”

Instead of answering, Michael punches the emergency button on the control panel, and the elevator shudders to a stop in-between floors.

Dean braces against the wall closest to him. “What the—”

“You thought I was gonna walk out the main entrance with you in tow?” Michael smiles. “Right now, they’re tracking your position thanks to that fancy watch you have on your wrist. If we split, it should give me a decent head start.”

“We’re splitting?”

“Yes. I escape through the ceiling hatch, you stay here. I’m sorry.”

Though the apology sounds sincere, its effect is significantly diminished by the sting of a needle plunging into Dean’s arm.

“It’s just enough to make you sleep for a while,” Michael explains, his face blurring fast before Dean’s eyes. “It was good to see you, Dean.”

“Fuck off,” Dean mumbles, and passes out.

* * *

It takes a few hours for the sedative to leave Dean’s system, so he doesn’t remember much of their return trip to Burbank. He spends most of it sprawled across the backseat of Henriksen’s SUV while his frazzled brain struggles to come back online and process everything that’s happened.

“What do we do now?” he slurs, stumbling a little as Castiel helps him through the door to his apartment. Sam and Sarah are both still at work, so that’s one less lie he has to tell them. By the time they come back, the drug should wear off.

“Now you get some rest,” Castiel says.

“No, I mean – what do we do about Michael? Are you and Vic gonna go after him?”

“He’s probably halfway around the world by now,” Cas mutters. He guides Dean to lie on the bed and runs his fingertips over Dean’s brow, brushing back the hair plastered to his forehead. Inhibitions lowered by the drug, Dean can’t resist leaning into the touch. “Besides, my job is to look after you, not chase down rogue operatives.”

Rogue operatives. Right. Except—

“He said he wasn’t rogue. In the elevator, before he tranqed me.”

“Did he explain why he had stolen the Intersect?”

“No.”

“Then how can we believe him,” Castiel says bitterly.

It’s a question that Dean keeps asking himself long after Cas has left. The sedatives relinquish their hold on him within the next hour, but even clear-headed, Dean is none the wiser. If Michael wanted to argue his case, he had a perfect opportunity, yet he chose to run. It doesn’t exactly scream innocence. And now that he’s A.W.O.L, Dean doubts they’ll ever find out what his real motives were.

After reaching that conclusion, he goes to the kitchen, does the dishes, wipes down the counters, takes out the trash, and runs into Michael in the courtyard.

“Hello again,” Michael says pleasantly. He’s wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap to obscure his face, but there’s no hiding the teasing smile stretching his lips.

“You’ve got some balls coming here,” Dean tells him, tossing the trash bag into the bin. “Before you try anything, you should know that Henriksen lives right next door. One scream from me and he goes into combat mode.”

Michael’s smile fades a little. “I need to talk to you, Dean.”

“Oh, _now_ you wanna talk? Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to just stick another needle in me?”

“I did what I had to do to get out of there. Besides, it wasn’t safe. I can’t risk anyone overhearing.”

Dean gives him a skeptical once-over. He’s still not buying whatever Michael’s selling, but if the guy wants to finally explain himself, it might be a good idea to let him. Dean can decide later on if he believes any of it.

“Fine,” he relents. “You’ve got ten minutes.” He starts walking back towards his apartment, but Michael’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist.

“No, not there. We don’t want any eavesdroppers.”

“Dude, you’re paranoid. My apartment is—”

“—full of bugs, I guarantee you.”

Dean scoffs. “Bullshit.”

“Wanna bet?” Michael puts a finger against his lips and motions for Dean to follow him. Though still distrustful, Dean lets him in through the main door and silently directs him to his bedroom. Once there, Michael does a thorough sweep of the room, running his fingers under the edge of the desk, lifting the lamp to check underneath it, dislodging books, DVDs and collectibles.

Overall, there are four bugs in Dean’s room alone.

“I can’t believe this,” Dean says when they’re back in the relative safety of the courtyard. He falls onto a bench shielded by the lilac shrubs, still lush despite being past their bloom. “All this time, they’ve been listening in on me?”

“The CIA has some serious control issues,” Michael says wryly. “And you’re an invaluable asset. They would want to keep tabs on you. They probably planted bugs at your workplace, too. Where do you work, anyway?”

“The Buy More.”

Michael stares at him. “You’re joking.”

“I wish.”

“Dean, what happened to you? You work in retail, you live with your brother...”

“What happened is you got me kicked out of school, you asshole. I can’t afford my own place, and if it weren’t for Bobby’s help, I would be up to my fucking elbows in student debt. You do realize I had to return my scholarship, right?”

At last – at fucking _last –_ Michael has the decency to look contrite. “I know you won’t believe me, but I was looking out for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to. But I do believe you.” When Michael blinks at him in surprise, Dean shrugs. “I paid old Devereux a visit. He told me about the whole CIA recruitment business. Frankly, I’m offended you thought I was too big of a wuss to hold my own.”

Michael sighs. “It’s not that. I knew you could handle it. I just didn’t like the idea of who you would become if they dragged you into it.”

“So you decided to play my protector behind my back instead of talking to me about it,” Dean says dryly.

Michael did always have an arrogant streak. People tended to forgive him for it, especially since it was paired with good looks and that easy charm of his. He was never held accountable for it – and even now, even after everything, Michael doesn’t deign to answer Dean’s accusation. He smacks his lips and switches gears with an effortless, “That’s not what I wanna talk about. I’m here because I need you to look at something for me.”

Diving into his pocket, Michael retrieves his phone, taps the screen a few times, and sticks it under Dean’s nose. “Can you tell me who this is?”

Dean scowls and snatches the phone from Michael’s hand to get a better look.

In the picture, a bald, dark-skinned man looks straight into the camera, features sharp and mouth pressed into a thin line. It must be an ID photo, because his pose is as far away from candid as possible.

Dean exhales shakily as a series of images rushes through his head. “His name’s Gordon Walker. He’s CIA.”

“Holy shit,” Michael whispers. “It really works. You remember all the Intersect intel that I sent you.”

“Yeah,” Dean grinds out. “Thanks again for that.”

Leaning forward, Michael grips Dean’s forearm, the wonder on his face replaced by pure resolve. That look alone is enough to convince Dean he’s finally going to get some answers.

“Dean, listen to me. Walker is part of Fulcrum, a splinter group inside the CIA. They—”

The opening notes of _Fortunate Son_ blare out from inside Dean’s pocket.

“Come on,” Dean groans. “You,” he says, jabbing a finger at Michael, “hold that thought. Don’t you dare disappear.”

Not only does Michael not disappear, but he looks over Dean’s shoulder to see who’s calling. “Oh, that’s perfect,” he says when he sees Castiel’s name flash on screen. “Tell him to come. Do _not_ tell him I’m here, or he’ll bring half the agency with him.”

“Maybe he should.”

“Dean. If you want to hear the truth, you’ll do as I say.”

Finger poised over the answer button, Dean hesitates. He doesn’t trust Michael for shit, but if he tips Cas off, Michael will hightail it out of here hell for leather, leaving Dean with even more questions and no answers.

“Hey, Cas,” he says into the phone.

“Hello, Dean. How are you feeling? Has the sedative worn off?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, looking straight at Michael, who raises an eyebrow in warning. “Yeah, I’m good. Listen, Cas, I actually remembered something. Something else that Michael told me in the elevator, I just – I was a little out of it before and I forgot to tell you.”

“What did he say?”

“I, um. I don’t wanna talk about it over the phone. Do you think you could come over?”

“Well, well,” Michael smirks when Dean ends the call and locks his phone. “That was grade-A lying.”

“You’d know,” Dean says with a glare. They have at least fifteen minutes before Castiel arrives, and he knows exactly how they’re going to spend them. “If you’re honest about wanting to come clean—”

“I am.”

“Then answer me this. Why Cassie?”

He expects Michael to go into defensive mode, but all he gets is a blank stare. “What do you mean, why Cassie?”

“Don’t play dumb. Why did you sleep with her?”

Michael’s eyes widen. “Is that what she told you? Jesus Christ, Dean. Did you really think I would do that to you?”

Not for the first time today, Dean feels like somebody has pulled the rug from under his feet. “Michael, if you’re lying to me again, spy or not, I’m gonna whoop your ass.”

“I’m not lying. Dean, I swear to you I didn’t touch her. She did come to me after she heard you’d been caught cheating, and she asked me if it was true. I confirmed – you already know why. I thought she would be sad, or disappointed, or even devastated, but she was just… angry.”

“Angry,” Dean repeats, his voice hollow.

Cassie didn’t seem angry when they last saw each other. She sat on Dean’s dorm bed, watching him pack up his belongings, watching his hands shake as he cleaned out his closet and his desk. She didn’t offer any help and didn’t utter a word, not until Dean was done and turned to face her, to say the only thing he could.

“I didn’t do it, Cassie.”

She looked him in the eye and replied, “I don’t believe you.”

Even now, over six years later, Dean remembers with crystal clarity how those words lodged into his heart like jagged shards of glass. How excruciating it was to hear her add, “Michael said you did. He’d know, wouldn’t he?”

How the contents of his stomach sloshed unpleasantly as he asked, “You spoke with Michael?”

How dispassionate Cassie’s voice sounded when she said, “Yeah,” then glanced at her nails with an air of nonchalance, like the whole conversation was boring her, and delivered the final blow: “We hooked up last night, actually.”

Dean was so, so wrong. She _was_ angry. It’s just that instead of being open about it, of screaming out her disappointment, she channeled it into petty revenge. She plastered on an indifferent expression and she told him what she knew would hurt him the most.

It’s worse, somehow. When Dean thought they’d fucked behind his back, he could scramble for ways to ease the hurt. He could tell himself that it was just sex; it probably didn’t mean anything. Maybe one or both of them were drunk. Maybe their conscience caught up to them and they regretted it later. Maybe it was a heat-of-the-moment kind of thing. They were weak crutches, but they got him through the first few months after his expulsion. But this? Knowing that Cassie lied through her teeth to punish him for not being the man she thought he was, that she actively sought out a way to best stick her finger into the wound and _twist?_ It made her mean. It made her malicious.

Dean wonders if all of that ugliness had always been there, brimming under the surface, and he just never noticed, too busy doting on her.

“I had no idea she told you this,” Michael says quietly, jarring Dean out of his thoughts. “Why didn’t you confront me about it? I would’ve told you the truth.”

Dean gives a dry laugh. “Like you told me the truth when I asked why you set me up, and you said I’d brought this on myself? Fuck you, Michael.”

“Dean—”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it.”

Blessedly, Michael does shut up.

In the silence that follows, the only sounds are the whisper of the wind and the quiet tinkle of the water fountain. Dean stares into space, willing his anger to abate. At least now, he has the full picture. It’s long overdue, and it reveals some ugly truths, but it’s there.

He shakes his head, clenching his hands into fists in his lap; he needs to focus on the present. Cas will be here any minute, and for the first time in… possibly ever, Dean is not looking forward to it.

They hear him first: slow steps, a cock of a gun, and a low voice saying, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m unarmed,” Michael says, but he doesn’t raise his hands. “I need help, Cas. I will explain everything.”

Coming closer, Castiel slowly lowers his gun. His eyes dart from Michael to Dean. “You lied to me.”

“You bugged my apartment. Guess we’re even.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, his eyes moving back to Michael. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t hand you over to the agency.”

Michael stands up, and Castiel’s gun lifts immediately, now level with Michael’s chest.

“Not a step closer.”

“I need you to trust me, Cas,” Michael pleads, obediently staying in place. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but you need to let me say my piece. You trusted me before, didn’t you? You trusted me with your life.”

Dean feels like he’s villager number three witnessing a reunion between Tristan and Isolde, and he hates it. The tension between Cas and Michael is so thick even a knife wouldn’t cut through it. You’d need a chainsaw to as much as make a dent in it.

He clears his throat, and two pairs of eyes turn to him. “For what it’s worth, I think we should give him a chance. He showed me a picture earlier and I flashed on it, so…”

Castiel doesn’t look happy about it, but he does put away his gun. “Fine. I’m assuming this goes both ways?”

Michael’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“The trust. It’s supposed to go both ways.”

“Yes,” Michael says warily.

“Good,” Castiel says, and starts walking. As soon as Dean realizes where he’s headed, he catches up to him and tugs at his sleeve.

“Cas, Henriksen’s gonna blow Michael’s brains out first, ask questions later.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Castiel says, knocking on Henriksen’s door. “All four of us are going to have an adult, mature conversation. If Michael offers a satisfactory explanation for his actions, we’ll part amicably. If he doesn’t, I will want backup, and Henriksen” – here, Castiel raises his voice – “is my new partner.”

Michael purses his lips. “Nice dig.”

“It’s not a dig, it’s a fact,” Castiel snaps just as the door opens.

“Hi, Vic,” Dean says with resignation. “Got a sec?”

* * *

This is, without a doubt, the weirdest round table Dean has ever participated in.

On his right, Michael sits with his back ramrod straight and his palms flat on the table as a sign of surrender. On his left, Henriksen has a gun aimed at Michael’s head, elbow propped casually in front of him. Across the table, Castiel clasps his hands together, watching Michael expectantly. As for Dean himself, he has no gun, no plan, and no idea if they’re all going to be alive by the end of this conversation.

“You have ten minutes,” Henriksen reiterates. “Go.”

Michael shifts in his seat, though his hands remain firmly on the table. “About a year ago, I was recruited by a special access group inside the CIA. As Dean already knows, they’re called Fulcrum. It seemed legit at first. They knew who I was, my record, my past assignments… I had no reason to doubt them. I thought I was getting a promotion.” Michael snorts, but Dean hears the bitterness underneath it. “They ordered me to shed my agency contacts and go deep. I didn’t realize until way too late that it was an internal strike. The original members of Fulcrum were some of the people working on the Intersect, who thought that it wasn’t being used to its full potential. Instead of letting the Intersect cross-reference data, detect patterns and identify security threats, they wanted to find a way to upload it directly into operatives’ heads. When the idea was dismissed as far-fetched and potentially dangerous, they set out to steal the Intersect and continue experiments on their own. They would have gotten it, too.” The corner of Michael’s mouth twitches in a mirthless smile. “So I stole it before they could.”

“But why send it to _me_?” Dean asks, unable to help himself.

“I knew you could handle the upload, plus I needed a friend who was a complete outsider. Someone who wouldn’t know anything about Fulcrum. They have their people across all agencies, and I didn’t know who to trust.” Here, Michael casts an apologetic glance at Cas.

“Let’s say we believe you,” Henriksen allows. “How did you survive? According to the report I read, you got shot in the chest.”

“I did,” Michael agrees. “And they saved me. Dean, do you remember that man you flashed on when I showed you his picture?”

“Gordon Walker,” Dean nods. “The CIA guy.”

“He’s one of them. Fulcrum. He found me bleeding out, and his team grabbed me before anyone else could. Or,” Michael adds, frowning, “at least that’s what I assume. I did lose a lot of blood and the memories are kinda blurry. I remember being in an ambulance, and Walker asking me what I’d done with the Intersect.”

“What did you tell him?” Castiel asks sharply; the first words he’s spoken since he sat down at the table.

Michael gives him a curious look. “I told him I had seen the images, and then blown up the computer. He doesn’t know I sent it to Dean beforehand.”

“Hold up,” Henriksen says. “So these Fulcrum nut jobs think the only copy of the Intersect is in _your_ head?”

“Correct. That’s why they saved me. If I had told them anything else, they would’ve let me die,” Michael shrugs. “They probably used one of the European clinics. Like I said, I don’t remember much of it. As soon as I recovered, they put me in a human transport container to ship me undetected back to the States, to a Fulcrum facility. If you guys hadn’t intercepted the shipment, they would have tried to extract the Intersect from me by any means necessary. Knowing their methods, I would probably end up a salivating mess, or if I was lucky enough – dead.”

Dean swallows. He hopes what he’s just heard is not a glimpse into his own future.

“So where did the report of your death come from?”

“Cas, Fulcrum is still CIA. It would have been laughably easy for them to fabricate it, make sure no one came looking for me.”

“What do you want from us, then?”

“I need to turn myself in to the CIA. The real one. I have to be sure I’m not being handed over to a Fulcrum operative.”

“Well, I can’t help you,” Dean says. “The Intersect doesn’t know who’s Fulcrum and who’s not. When I flashed on that Walker guy, it didn’t say anything other than that he’s CIA.”

“I figured as much,” Michael says, and pointedly looks to his right.

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “What can I do?”

“You can talk to director Nicholson without any middlemen. Explain the situation, make sure she believes me. Once she does, we can worry about arranging a safe pickup.”

“Hold on,” Dean interjects, “how do you know _she_ isn’t Fulcrum too?”

Michael smiles, wide and genuine. “I like your thinking. But no, she’s beyond suspicion. She’s been in charge of the Intersect project from the very beginning, and she was the one who vetoed experimenting with human Intersects. She’s Fulcrum’s enemy number one. If we can trust anyone, it’s her.”

Dean raises his hands, conceding. “Okay. Just making sure.”

From there, it’s a straightforward affair. Castiel charges Henriksen with keeping an eye on Dean and Michael while he goes to the other room to make the phone call. Fifteen minutes later, he emerges to announce that director Nicholson is “inclined to believe them, though not fully convinced” and demands a private conversation with Michael. Another thirty minutes later (during which Dean is absolutely _not _tempted to eavesdrop), it’s done.

“She wants me to go after Fulcrum,” Michael says, handing the phone back to Cas. “I was on the inside, so she thinks I have the best chance of taking them down. She promised to provide any resources necessary, but it’s all off books. As far as the CIA is concerned, I’m dead. Again.”

“Condolences,” Dean says, and Michael snorts.

Though he doesn’t let it on, worry worms its way under Dean’s ribs. Michael might be capable and well-trained, but he’s also going up against a nefarious organization that is actively hunting him down, believing him to be a human Intersect. Even with his limited knowledge of the world of espionage, Dean can tell that this is a lot to take on. That’s why when the time comes for them to part, Dean bites the bullet. He returns Michael’s nod goodbye and after a moment’s hesitation, extends his right hand.

If someone had told him a month ago that he would be willingly shaking hands with Michael Milton, he would have laughed in their face. But Michael didn’t screw up Dean’s life on a whim, or out of animosity. He didn’t fool around with Cassie. He had a reason, and while Dean still lowkey feels tempted to stomp on Michael’s face for meddling with his life, it was Michael’s intentions that he agonized over the most, and though misguided, they were pure.

Unlike Dean, Michael doesn’t hesitate. Swiftly, he grips Dean’s outstretched hand and squeezes it; a tentative truce.

“I’ll make it right,” he says, looking Dean right in the eye. “And I’m sorry. For everything.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Dean nods. An apology doesn’t make everything okay, but it’s certainly a start.

* * *

Perhaps it makes him a terrible person, but it’s not the danger hanging over Michael’s head that keeps Dean awake that night.

The reason he can’t fall asleep, and tosses from side to side as minutes tick by, is the glimpse of a scene he caught after they left Henriksen’s. He swears he didn’t mean to spy on them, but if Castiel and Michael wanted more privacy, they could have gone somewhere else, a café or Cas’s place or hell, even Cas’s car. Instead, after dropping Dean off at his door, they found a quiet spot across the courtyard to have a one-on-one.

The distance was too great to overhear anything, but Dean could still see them through his bedroom window. With rising unease, he watched the tension in Cas’s shoulders and the apologetic look on Michael’s face. He watched Cas shake his head, and Michael lean in to cup Cas’s cheek. Fighting wave after wave of something ugly and acidic he had no right to feel, he watched Michael move even closer, whisper a few words into the space between them, and Cas raise his hand to wrap those beautiful fingers around Michael’s wrist.

They were about to kiss, Dean was certain of it. And it wasn’t going to be one of those awkward little things Cas bestowed upon Dean out of duty. Not a pathetic peck on a cheek or a clumsy meeting of closed mouths. Castiel was going to kiss Michael and _mean_ it, with feeling and urgency and probably tongue, and Dean couldn’t look away, the same way you can’t look away from two trains barreling towards each other at full speed.

Practically plastered to the window, his breath misting the glass, Dean stood and patiently waited to have his beating heart ripped out of his chest, because he’s nothing if not a glutton for punishment.

But Castiel lowered Michael’s hand from his cheek and said something that caused a helpless, disbelieving look to flit across Michael’s face. With a gentle squeeze to Michael’s arm, Castiel turned around and walked away, and Dean’s breath rushed out of him so swiftly it fogged up the window even worse than before. Above the white layer of condensation on the glass, he could see Michael standing there for a while longer, surprise and incredulity flickering in his eyes, until he shook himself off and left as well.

Dean shouldn’t have peeped in on them. If he hadn’t, maybe he would be able to fall asleep right now. Maybe he wouldn’t be going out of his mind trying to figure out why what he witnessed didn’t look like a happy lovers’ reunion it had every reason to be.

Call him crazy, but to Dean, it looked a lot like a breakup.


	7. The Exit Strategy

“You’ve been quiet lately,” Charlie says, dumping two spoonfuls of sugar into her morning coffee. She stirs it and takes a sip, letting out a content hum against the rim of the mug. “Everything okay?”

“Of course,” Dean says, though guilt thrums through him at the lie. It’s been three weeks since Michael left, and Dean still can’t shake himself off. For a guy with a computer in his head, he’s having a hard time sorting out his feelings and putting a lid on them.

The worst part is not being able to talk to anyone. In the past, when things got tough he could always go to Sam, or Sarah, or Charlie; he could always count on them to listen and offer advice, or at least comfort. This time, it’s a no-go. Hell, his family didn’t even know that Michael was presumed dead in the first place. At this point, the only two people Dean could turn to are his handlers, and, well.

He’d rather jump into a chamber filled with snakes, Indy-style, than unburden to Henriksen.

As for Cas…

“It’s just,” Dean says, suddenly struck by an idea, “Cas’s ex visited town recently and it shook me a little bit.”

He shouldn’t have said it, he knows. He’ll only end up in a web of lies, but dammit, he’s human and he needs to vent to a friend about what’s bothering him. So sue him.

“Oh,” Charlie says. “Exes are always fun.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah. Super fun.”

“Did they date for long?”

“A year or so, I think.”

“Childhood sweethearts?”

“No.”

“Good-looking?”

“Yeah.”

“More than you?”

“Charlie,” Dean huffs.

“What? I’m just gathering the facts,” she says, a crooked smile lifting the corner of her mouth. “And trying to understand why you would feel threatened by an ex showing up. I know, I know, it’s always uncomfortable,” she adds when Dean raises his eyes to the ceiling. “But you and Cas have been dating for what, six months now? And every time I see you guys together, you look so in love it’s disgusting. I actually started carrying a little vomit bag, just in case.”

Dean makes a half-hearted swipe at her, which Charlie dodges with ease. “You’re wrong,” he tells her. “We’re not— we’re taking it slow.”

Charlie gives an ugly snort. “I don’t know how you’re taking it, Romeo, but Cas is gone on you. Do _not_ interrupt me,” she says, a threatening note in her voice when Dean tries to protest. “I’m not talking about PDAs and pet names and all those conspicuous signs you’re thinking of right now. That’s kindergarten, and it’s easy to fake.”

Dean’s heart jumps in his chest, ready for the oncoming panic. Charlie knows him so well, if she noticed…

“Lots of couples act more in love than they actually are,” Charlie continues, tapping her spoon against her lip. “In public, they give you cavities, but in private, they fight and clash and then when they inevitably break up, people are all surprised, because ‘they seemed so happy together’. Nah, son. You need to learn to look past the show they’re putting on and spot real affection underneath.”

Dean’s voice squeaks like a dog toy when he asks, “Like what?”

Charlie smiles. “Glad you asked.” With two fingers of her left hand, she seizes her right thumb and starts to rattle off examples. “One, they know little things about you because they pay attention. They know how you take your coffee, if your go-to soda is Coke or Sprite, what ice cream flavor you like best...” She looks pointedly at the napkin Dean is fiddling with, soaked with melted lemon ice cream Cas brought him during lunch. “Two, they look at you when they think you can’t see. Their eyes follow you when you leave the room and find you when you come back. They might get so absorbed in watching you that they don’t hear your super hot redhead friend asking them if they want another serving of funfetti.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Three, they’re thoughtful. For instance, they go easy on you when you’re playing Settlers of Catan together.”

Dean can’t argue with the first two examples, but Charlie’s way off base with the third one. “Easy? Charlie, Cas is a terminator when it comes to board games. He never goes easy on any of us, least of all me. He’ll never pass up a chance to annihilate me.”

“True,” Charlie agrees, not missing a beat. “Except that one time in… early May, was it? You had a really shitty day – nasty client on a home install, fight with Bobby, had to skip lunch… ring a bell?”

Yeah, Dean remembers that day, and “shitty” is actually a pretty accurate term to describe it. Everything that could go wrong did. First he overslept, then a middle-aged lady he was doing the install for yelled at him for not taking his shoes off and tracking mud into her foyer (untrue), then he got into an argument with Bobby, who accused him of letting Adam and Andy channel surf during work hours even though they didn’t have anything better to do. To top it all off, the combined stress of the day and the change in air pressure gave Dean a splitting headache that didn’t ease up even after he took the maximum dose of painkillers. By the time he got home, he was cranky and exhausted, and he almost flaked out of game night, wanting nothing more than to go to bed and sleep for a week. The only reason he didn’t was because Sam had a tough week at work as well, and had been looking forward to it.

Dean also remembers that the night ended on a surprisingly pleasant note. The painkillers finally kicked in, the game took his mind off things, and he even came second place to Sarah, defeating Cas by a wide margin.

Dean shakes his head in disbelief. “Are you saying he threw in the towel to make me feel better? Charlie, I didn’t even tell him about my day—”

“He has eyes, Dean.”

Dean’s mouth snaps shut.

Charlie sighs, and takes the now-mangled napkin out of Dean’s hand. “Dude, I don’t know why you’re so determined to doubt Cas’s feelings, but I promise you, you have nothing to fear from his ex.”

Charlie takes aim at the trash can tucked into the corner of the break room and sends the napkin flying towards it. Watching her grumble and scramble out of her chair to pick it up from the floor, Dean wonders if it’s wise to let himself believe her.

* * *

It’s a sweltering day in late August when Dean finally musters up the courage to ask. The blazing sun beats relentlessly down on the sidewalks of Burbank, so Dean scurries across the parking lot as fast as he can, sighing in relief as he enters the bubble of air-conditioning and the familiar, cotton-candy smell of the parlor.

“I kinda wanna dunk myself in your freezer,” he says in lieu of greeting.

Behind the counter, Castiel lifts an eyebrow. “Unsanitary.”

Dean shrugs, adjusting the strap on his messenger bag. “Wait till you go outside, you’ll change your tune.”

“We’re in California, Dean.”

“Shut up. Are you ready?”

Castiel throws a dishcloth over his shoulder and grabs a bottle of cleaning detergent. “Almost. I just have to spray down the tables. Ten minutes?”

Dean nods, and watches as Castiel makes quick work of scrubbing away crusted-on ice cream from the tabletops, rearranging chairs and picking up discarded napkins as he goes. Like everything Cas does, it’s meticulous and efficient, without a single unnecessary motion. Dean studies him in silence, admiring the wide slope of his back and the way the soft afternoon light slanting through the windows makes his hair glow almost gold. In the quiet of the parlor, lulled by the low, monotonous thrumming of the freezers, Dean grows bold.

“Aren’t you fed up with this?”

Castiel pauses mid-swipe and tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, this...” Dean makes a vague motion with his hand, encompassing the empty store around them. “This is not you. You didn’t join the agency to serve people ice cream and wipe down tables.”

“It’s a cover,” Castiel says, like Dean needs a reminder.

“I know, but— it’s been months. And I haven’t flashed in weeks. You’re kind of wasting your time here, Cas.”

Castiel gives the last table a generous spritz of the cleaner and runs his dishcloth over it, but the movement is slower than before, less precise. “I don’t see it that way.”

Dean frowns. “Henriksen does. Not a day passes by that he doesn’t bitch to me about how he’d rather be infiltrating terrorist cells in Kuwait than babysitting my ass. He’s bored and restless. Why aren’t you?”

Sighing, Castiel puts away his bottle and turns around to look Dean in the eye. “What do you want me to say?”

“How about the truth?” Dean suggests, and takes a step towards him.

In response, Castiel takes a step towards Dean as well.

The space between them shrinks to a table’s length – an arm’s length – an elbow’s length, growing smaller until Dean can distinguish every single eyelash framing Cas’s eyes.

“I like it here,” Castiel says simply. “I like your friends and your family. I like game nights. I like it when you walk me home after, even though you don’t have to.” He bites his lip, and Dean’s eyes drop to track the movement. “The very nature of going undercover demands that you stop being yourself. You shed your identity and become someone else, whoever it is you need to be to achieve your goal. But ever since I came here, I haven’t— I—”

Dean stands still, and waits.

“I haven’t done as much pretending as I should have,” Castiel finishes. Embarrassment dusts pink over his cheeks. “It’s unprofessional, but it makes my stay here easier. A lot of the time, I can just be myself, which isn’t a luxury I can afford often.” He looks up at Dean, a challenge in his eyes. “Does that answer your question?”

If anything, it raises more questions, but Dean nods all the same. He steps back and lets Cas finish his cleaning, his thoughts wandering.

For months now, he’s been laboring under the belief that Cas puts on a persona when they’re hanging out. He tried to make peace with the fact that he didn’t know the real Cas, and never would. But if what Cas says is true, then maybe—

Maybe he’s not as far away as Dean thought.

* * *

The laughing track on the TV trills in the background as Dean reheats pasta from last night’s dinner and dunks it onto his plate. He ensconces himself on the couch, legs propped on the coffee table, and turns up the volume. He should go on Netflix and start one of the twentysomething shows sitting on his to-watch list, but it’s not that kind of day. The Nerd Herd phone was ringing off the hook all afternoon, everyone and their grandma demanding his constant attention, and he’s too drained to muster up the presence of mind required to follow a new plot.

So, _Golden Girls _it is.

Halfway through the second episode, when Dean’s belly is already full and his mind pleasantly foggy, there’s a knock on the door.

“Come on, Sam, you have the key,” he grumbles, dragging himself upright.

He swings the door open, and it’s not his brother on the other side.

“Oh, hey,” Dean says. “Did we make plans for tonight? I must have forgotten.”

Not waiting for an invitation, Castiel steps inside and closes the door behind him, his eyes sweeping over the room. “Are you alone?”

“Yeah. Sarah’s already left for her night shift and Sam’s still at work.” Dean shakes his head. “These poor kids, they keep missing each other. You hungry? I just ate, but I still have leftover pasta if you wanna—” He begins to turn around, but Castiel grabs his elbow and pulls at it until they’re face to face. Dean meets his eye, and something cold coils around his spine.

There’s a crease on Castiel’s forehead that only ever appears when he’s distraught. Dean could count the number of times he’s seen it on one hand; most recently, when Michael turned up alive. Castiel’s hand slides from Dean’s elbow to his forearm, and squeezes so firmly Dean almost feels his circulation cut off.

“I come with news,” Castiel says. “The new Intersect is up and running. They finished it today.”

The bottom drops out of Dean’s stomach.

It was inevitable, he knows. Sooner or later the computer would be rebuilt, and he would become obsolete as an asset. But it was supposed to be months down the line. Not now_. _Not before he learned how to go back to a life of mediocrity, and how to let go of someone who doesn’t belong to him.

“So it’s over,” he hears himself say. “You and Vic are leaving.”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, we are. You and me.” When Dean stares at him, uncomprehending, Cas moves closer and takes Dean’s face in both hands. They’re cold, with a barely noticeable tremble running through them. “Dean, listen to me very carefully. I need you to go to your room and pack a bag. Take only essentials, as much cash as you have, and leave your phone on your nightstand.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean croaks. He would dismiss it as a joke, except Cas doesn’t do pranks, and Dean has learned to read his eyes well enough by now. He’s being serious.

Cheerful, sitcom-y music drifts from the TV in the living room, announcing the end of another episode. Dean would laugh at the timing if it weren’t for the overwhelming sense of _wrong _clawing at his throat. He leans into the press of Castiel’s palms, searching his eyes. “Cas, what really happened?”

“They were never going to let you go.” Gently, Castiel runs his thumbs over Dean’s cheeks. As much as Dean enjoys the touch, it strikes him as odd. There is no reason for this kind of intimacy when they’re alone, and Cas never oversteps that boundary. “They can’t allow you to walk around with top-secret intelligence embedded in your head. You’d be a constant liability.”

Anger stirs in Dean’s gut. “So what, they’re gonna lock me up?”

He should have known it was always going to end with him in a padded cell. He may as well count himself lucky that he got to spend some time with his family before the timer ran out.

“They’re not going to lock you up,” Castiel whispers. “Dean, they’re going to kill you.”

So that’s why there are palms on either side of Dean’s face. It’s for comfort; for softening the blow. And they do help to ground him a little, but Dean still feels like he’s been hit over the head with a two-by-four. His vision blurs at the edges. “I thought—”

“I know, you thought your government cares. They don’t. In about an hour, Henriksen will come through this door to take you out, and we need to be as far away from here as possible.”

Out of all the kick-you-in-the-crotch news this evening abounds in, that’s what gets the biggest reaction from Dean.

“Vic is the one they sent to kill me?! That mother_fucker_.”

“He has no choice. It’s a direct order.”

“And what’s yours?”

Castiel’s eyes flick to the side. “To stand down.” He drops his hands and takes half a step back, restoring normal personal space between them. “Go pack. Three minutes.”

Dean doesn’t know how long it takes him. He grabs things at random, too shaken to put any real thought into what he might actually need. He pulls out a travel bag from under his bed and starts throwing stuff in haphazardly: a change of underwear and clothes, wallet and passport, sunglasses and pocket knife, toiletries and his allergy meds. He adds a phone charger too before he remembers he isn’t allowed to take his cell with him. Right. Traceable.

“Ready?” Castiel asks when Dean rejoins him in the living room.

Dean swallows, hefting the duffel over his shoulder. There’s one more thing he needs to do, and his chest hurts at the mere thought. “I have to say goodbye.”

“Dean, we don’t have the time—”

“I can’t leave without letting them know.”

“Letting them know what? That the government of the United States wants you dead?”

But Dean has made up his mind. He will not vanish into thin air without an explanation. He will not do that to Sam.

He will not be like dad.

“One minute,” he says. There’s a list of groceries stuck to the fridge with a magnet, and Dean tugs it free. He turns it over, grabs a pen and scribbles on the back, letters coming out slanted and uneven as his hand shakes.

“Dean,” Castiel says over his shoulder. “You can’t give any details.”

Dean doesn’t answer. He signs his name at the bottom of the page and sticks it back onto the fridge. One last time, he scans through it, imagining what Sam is going to feel when he reads it. When he comes home from work, tired and hungry, expecting to find Dean sprawled on the couch or hogging the shower. Expecting to vent about the case he’s been slaving over, maybe make a salad for his lunch the next day, bully Dean into eating some of it. Instead, he is going to find a rushed note scrawled on the back of a grocery list, saying:

_Sammy,_

_I wouldn’t be leaving if I didn’t have to. I’ll be fine. Take care of Sarah and let her take care of you._

_Love you both,_

_Dean_

A gentle touch lands on the small of Dean’s back, and he shakes himself off; squares his shoulders and swallows past the lump in his throat. “We can go,” he says gruffly.

“One more thing,” Castiel says. “Take off your watch.”

As Dean slips it off his wrist, Cas does the same with his own. Then, he carries them both to Dean’s bedroom to place them under a pillow.

“I thought you were gonna smash them or something,” Dean comments from the doorway.

Castiel straightens his back, frowning. “Why would I do that?”

Dean shrugs. “I dunno. That’s what they do in movies when they don’t wanna be traced.”

“Spy movies,” Cas mutters scornfully, like even saying the words aloud leaves a bad taste in his mouth. When Dean raises an eyebrow, he elaborates: “This is expensive equipment bought with taxpayers’ money. Besides, smashing the watch would cut off the signal, alerting home office we went off the grid. If you want to run from authorities, you need to be smart about it.”

Dean can’t argue with that.

There’s nothing left to be done, so they turn off the lights, plunging the apartment into darkness. As they slip out through the window of Sam and Sarah’s bedroom – the only way out Henriksen can’t see from his apartment – the reality of the situation starts to sink in.

This is the last time Dean ever sets foot here. He will never see his brother again, attend his wedding or congratulate him on making partner in his firm. He won’t be around to watch slasher movies with Sarah anymore, or co-organize their annual Halloween party with Charlie. He won’t drive the Impala again. If he ever becomes an uncle, he won’t even know.

They’re all going to think he bailed on them, and if the CIA ends up wasting him, they will never find out why.

“We should drive through the night,” Castiel says as they take a turn onto the interstate. He glances at the rearview mirror, then back at the road ahead. His grip on the steering wheel is tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

“That’s fine,” Dean mutters. He turns away to gaze through the window, but doesn’t see anything other than dark. Leaning his forehead against the glass, he says, “Where are we gonna go, Cas?”

Silence stretches between them long and taut like a tightrope. A car emerges from the darkness, its lights flashing as it passes them.

“I don’t know,” Cas says eventually. “A motel, for now. One day at a time.”

Dean closes his eyes. “One day at a time” is a nice way of saying “We can’t run forever.”

The engine rumbles, the speedometer needle climbs, the car swallows up the miles.

They drive.

* * *

They change cars three times in the next twenty-four hours.

The first one is a silver Sedan Castiel hotwires in a Denny’s parking lot in Wheeler Ridge. It has a kiddie seat in the back and a “Child onboard!” sticker on the windshield. Castiel says it’s good camouflage. Dean feels guilty.

The second one is a beat-up pickup truck parked at a shopping mall strip in the suburbs of Sacramento. It has chipped paint and an air freshener that must have been hung during the Clinton administration.

They keep that one for longer, and only ditch it once they cross into Oregon, exchanging it for a white Honda Civic. The Honda has a bumper sticker that says “Cowboy butts drive me nuts,” and it makes Dean crack a smile for the first time in ten hours. They switch seats around dawn, after a bathroom break near Grants Pass, and Dean drives until he can’t feel anything – his legs, his neck, his already budding homesickness.

Thirty miles outside of Portland, Castiel looks at the dashboard clock and says, “We’ve been on the road for almost fifteen hours.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees him rubbing his wrist where the CIA watch used to sit. “It’s time to find a motel.”

“Thank God,” Dean mutters. Another hour or so and he would crash the car into a ditch, saving the CIA the trouble. They take the nearest exit off the highway, and pull into the parking lot of the first motel that looks sleazy enough to guarantee they won’t be asked for an ID.

“Room number 12,” the kid behind the counter says in a bored voice, handing them the key. “Two queens.”

It’s not as bad as Dean expected. There are damp patches on the ceiling and caked-on dirt on the bathroom tiles, but the sheets don’t have any stains on them, and they smell like somebody has actually washed them recently.

“Do you want to take a shower?” Castiel asks, placing his suitcase on the bed closest to the door.

Dean wouldn’t trust himself not to fall asleep under the spray, so he shakes his head. “Nah, you go ahead.”

Once the sound of water filters through the paper-thin wall, Dean crawls under the covers and presses his cheek against the pillow, inhaling the scent of dollar store laundry detergent. His eyelids are drooping, but his mind won’t let him rest. It keeps feeding him images: of Sam, having found the note on the fridge; of Charlie, calling his cell again and again with no answer; of Bobby doing the same once Dean doesn’t turn up at work; of Henriksen, following them in his Dodge Journey all the way here, driving with single-minded focus, a gun lying on the seat next to him; of Cas, having thrown everything away, leaning his forehead against the dirty tiles and realizing he’s made the biggest mistake of his life.

When the bathroom door opens, Dean pretends to be asleep. Lucky how good he’s become at faking things.

He hears Cas shuffle around and get into bed, a clunk of the suitcase being put on the floor and a rustle of covers. At 9 am, the room is full of daylight that doesn’t favor sound sleep, but they’re too wiped to care. Within ten minutes, soft snoring reaches Dean’s ears. Within another ten, he’s out too.

* * *

“We should keep off the interstate from now on,” Castiel says. “I propose we take route 26 and head west. What do you think?”

Dean dips his fry in ketchup and sticks it into his mouth. “Wanna go see the ocean?” he asks dryly.

“Might as well,” Cas says, shrugging a shoulder. It’s a cloudy day and despite the early hour, the lights in the diner are turned on, casting deep shadows under his eyes. The brief rest hasn’t helped him much; he looks about as tired as Dean feels.

Wiping his hands on a napkin, Dean starts to collect burger crumbs off the table with his fingertip. He keeps his eyes down as he says, “And what then?”

“We could find a cabin to rent somewhere near the beach.”

Dean smiles bitterly. That sounds nice. “And then?”

“Stay put, I guess.”

“For how long?”

When Castiel doesn’t answer, Dean sweeps the remaining crumbs into the dip of his hand and transfers them onto his empty plate. The one mess he can fix. “How long before money runs out?”

“We’ll manage.”

“You mean steal?”

Castiel shakes his head. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say you have a plan. I want you to say there’s at least a smidge of a chance that this ends well.”

Castiel gives him a sad smile, fingers curling around his soda glass. “You’re still alive, Dean.”

Apparently, that counts as a victory these days.

They pay for their food and they’re back on the road before dusk. It’s less than two hours to the coast, and they make it without any breaks, driving through the darkening woods of Nehalem County Park and beyond until they reach the ocean, vast and shimmering under the stars.

Castiel looks up from the burner phone he’s been tapping away on, and says, “I’ve found us a cabin. We pay for three weeks upfront, but no questions asked.”

“Where the hell did you look, Craigslist?” Dean asks, turning onto a local road. “Is it at least close to the ocean?”

Cas gives him a withering look and doesn’t bother answering.

The cabin lies hidden among tall, windswept trees. Surprisingly enough, it is not that far from the ocean, which is its only redeeming feature. The guy who drops off the keys and takes their money tells them the cabin is in “pretty good shape”, but a quick inspection proves otherwise. What they find is a kitchenette with rusty appliances; a cramped bathroom; a small living area with a sunken couch, a rickety table and three mismatched chairs; a bedroom corner separated by a mole-eaten curtain. From the moment he enters, it takes Dean about two seconds to understand why the guy didn’t ask for their ID and wanted to get paid in advance.

“Home sweet home,” he mumbles, dumping his duffel bag on the couch.

“It’s livable.”

“I know,” Dean sighs. He stretches, and something pops loudly in his lower back. “I’m gonna go take a shower. If I don’t come back within twenty minutes, assume the mold growing on the shower curtain has eaten me.”

The corners of Castiel’s lips lift. “I’ll pray for your safe return.”

The heater takes a solid five minutes to kick in and the water pressure is practically non-existent, but Dean doesn’t let that discourage him. He washes the smell of the road off his skin, scrubbing until it turns red and raw. He doesn’t dare touch the towel hanging on a hook by the door, so he shakes off as much water as he can, then puts on a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. His reflection blinks at him as he brushes his teeth, splintering into four where the mirror has cracked.

“Still in one piece?” Castiel asks when Dean joins him in the living room.

“Grossed out but whole,” Dean confirms. He waves his hand to indicate the bathroom’s free, and Castiel disappears inside with his toiletry bag.

Whatever could be said about the cabin owner and his liberal use of the phrase “good shape”, he earned some extra points in Dean’s book for lending them a fresh change of sheets. When Dean draws back the curtain that acts as a divider between the sleeping corner and the rest of the cabin, he sees that Castiel has already made the bed – the one, queen-sized bed.

The sheets are cold against his shower-warmed skin, and Dean shivers in his short-sleeved tee. He considers putting on some socks, but before he can make up his mind, Cas comes out of the bathroom, turns off the lights, and slides in next to him, lying on his right side so that they’re facing each other.

Even this far from the main roads and manmade lights, the darkness isn’t complete. A full moon peeks through the window behind Dean’s shoulder, throwing Castiel’s face into sharp relief. Hidden safely in his own shadow, Dean takes a moment to study him, the crow’s feet around his eyes, the hair curling around his ear, the sharp line of his nose.

A pang of guilt strikes him out of nowhere. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Castiel’s brows pull together. “What for?”

“Dragging you into this.”

The frown deepens. “You haven’t dragged me into anything, Dean. I made a choice.”

“You didn’t have to. You could’ve just… stepped back and let things happen.”

To Dean’s surprise, Castiel lets loose a small laugh. “You think passivity doesn’t count as a choice?” He scoots closer, propping himself on his elbow to look down at Dean. “And here I was, thinking so highly of you.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t preach morality to me, Mr. I Have A License To Kill.”

“All I’m saying is that you have no reason to feel guilty for a decision I made.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “But just so we’re clear, I wouldn’t blame you for staying out of this.”

“I know.” The old mattress creaks, its springs groaning as Castiel’s weight shifts. “That’s why I didn’t.” A hand comes up to cradle Dean’s jaw, thumb against the corner of his mouth.

He gives Dean plenty of time to pull away. With hesitance that’s so unlike him – so unnecessary – he leans down heartbeat by heartbeat. Dean does nothing to stop him; he watches, his heart slamming against his ribs, and prays that he isn’t dreaming. That he’s not about to wake up slumped against the door of a stolen car on a road somewhere between Salem and Albany.

Not meeting any resistance, Cas brushes his lips over Dean’s, shy and barely there.

Dean’s fingers clench in the sheets.

“If it’s not what you want, tell me,” Castiel says. “I won’t leave either way.”

Dean lifts his hands and curls them around Cas’s neck. He feels like there’s an electrical current running through him, white-hot and unstable, and it’s about to sweep everything away, starting with his self-control.

Dean can’t let it before he knows for sure, so he runs the pad of his thumb over Cas’s bristly cheek and asks, “Is it the cover or is it you?”

Castiel bumps their noses together. “The cover’s done. It’s me. It’s all me.”

Dean kisses him, hard and deep. He pulls him closer by the waist, by the scruff of his neck, by the shoulders, and for the first time since they went on the run, he feels tethered.

He wouldn’t mind spending the whole night like this, getting acquainted with the taste of Cas and his peppermint toothpaste, but Cas has other ideas. His kisses start to wander, moving from Dean’s mouth to the bolt of his jaw, then the spot below his ear, then down his neck to the hollow of his throat. The less innocent they get, the more need thrums through Dean’s body, reminding him how long it’s been. He hasn’t hooked up with anyone since last year, hasn’t looked at anyone other than Cas in months, and the last time he tried to jerk off (August, was it?), he couldn’t even finish without thinking about Cas’s lips wrapped around his dick. After the crushing shame of that particular incident, he stopped trying.

They shift on the bed, and Dean moans when he feels the bulge in Cas’s sleep pants. You can fake a whole relationship; you can’t fake _that_. “Cas,” he gasps, clawing at Cas’s shoulder. “Duds off. C’mon.”

They undress without finesse, racing to feel skin on skin. Once clothes are out of the way, Castiel slots himself into the vee of Dean’s legs, a joint sigh escaping them when their cocks slide together.

“Got condoms and lube in my wallet,” Dean says, though he’s not sure he will last long enough to make use of either. Not after he spent a goddamn _year _waiting for this.

“Next time,” Castiel promises. He grabs Dean’s hips and hikes them higher into his lap, manhandling him as effortlessly as if Dean weighed half of what he does. It’s so stupidly hot that it almost makes Dean lose track of his thoughts. He gasps, lets his legs fall open wider around Cas, but somewhere in the back of his head there must be an area that managed not to shut down yet.

_But what if we don’t get a next time, _it supplies_. What if they find us tonight, tomorrow, the day after that._

This is absolutely not the right moment to be thinking about this, but—

“What happens to you if we get caught?” _Or when. When is more likely._

Castiel doesn’t answer, so Dean tugs at his hair, repeats, “Cas, what happens?”

“Can we not talk about this now? I just want to touch you.”

Cas’s palm skims over Dean’s chest and down his abdomen, closes in a tight fist around Dean’s cock, and Dean bites down on a whine. “Cas,” he tries weakly, though he barely knows what he’s asking anymore. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe, let alone to find room in his mind for anything other than Cas’s warm weight pressing him down into the mattress, Cas’s thumb teasing his slit, Cas’s mouth brushing over his jawline. It’s every wet dream Dean has had since the moment they met come true, and the question slips from him irretrievably.

He tilts his head to catch Cas’s lips and runs his hands lightly over Castiel’s flanks, then up to his shoulder blades. He knew that with the kind of work Castiel does, he had to be fit, but knowing is one thing, and being allowed to feel those back muscles shift under his palms is another.

He rocks his hips into Cas’s hand to meet each downward stroke, head thrown back as Cas’s stubble drags against the sensitive skin of his neck. The glum thoughts he spent the whole day fighting now trickle out of him with each pass of Cas’s fingers, washed away to allow for that one perfect, fleeting moment of pleasure. They’ll be back, but with Cas’s body warm and close and finally his to touch, Dean couldn’t care less.

When Cas’s mouth leaves his neck, Dean opens his eyes and catches Cas staring at him. Cas’s voice sounds awed as he says, “I knew you’d be beautiful like this.”

Hearing that Castiel has thought about this, has pictured doing this to Dean just like Dean has pictured doing it to him, is enough to send Dean over the edge. “Fuck,” he gasps as he spills all over Cas’s fist and both of their stomachs. His hips twitch in the aftershocks, he’s out of breath, he’s weightless, the blood in his veins _sings_.

Before he can restart his three remaining brain cells and even think about reciprocating, Castiel runs his fingers through the mess on Dean’s abdomen and uses it to slick the way as he gives himself short, desperate strokes. Dean settles for watching him – and what a sight it is.

“Wanna see, come on,” he murmurs, tangling his fingers in the short hair at Cas’s nape. Their foreheads touch, but Dean keeps his eyes wide open, desperate not to miss a single second. “Show me.”

Cas’s mouth falls open and a look of utter bliss crosses his face, making Dean’s cock give a valiant twitch. Warmth coats Dean’s stomach, a delightful combination of filthy and satisfying, and then Cas is collapsing on top of him, sweaty and spent and gorgeous.

They lie there in complete silence, Dean’s hand still buried in Cas’s hair. (He spent months wondering if it’s as soft as it looks. It is.) Their breathing evens out slowly, and they hold onto each other like it’s all they have.

Dean supposes it is now.

* * *

Dean wakes up to the sound of birds warbling outside the cabin and an arm thrown around his waist.

For a second, he has trouble finding his bearings. He blinks against the sunlight streaming in through the window, struggling to remember where he is. Then he rolls over, and it all comes back.

Cas is still asleep, his naked chest rising and falling with steady breaths. He has a pillow crease on his cheek and an outrageous bedhead that Dean can’t help but run his fingers through.

“Hey,” he tries, rubbing his thumb behind Cas’s ear. “Hey, Cas?”

It takes a moment, but at length Castiel’s eyes flutter open. “Dean,” he mutters, his voice rough with sleep. “What time is it?”

“No idea. I don’t know where you stashed your burner phone, and we left our watches behind.”

Castiel sighs. “Right.”

Dean leans in to kiss him – just the corner of his mouth, closed-lipped since they both have morning breath – and that’s the moment his stomach chooses to emit a positively demonic growl.

Castiel laughs and shoves Dean’s face away. “All right, I got the message. Get dressed, we’ll drive to town for breakfast.”

They find a quiet, mostly empty diner and order half of the breakfast menu: scrambled eggs, sausages, pancakes, strawberry scones and a fruit salad Castiel insists on. Since tourist season is over and their recurring presence in the diner would draw unwanted attention, their next stop is a local grocery store where they stock up on food for the upcoming week: milk and cereal, eggs and flour, sugar and instant coffee. Dean grabs some beef jerky and a bottle of lube, too. When Castiel rolls his eyes, Dean gives him the finger guns. If he’s living on borrowed time, he’s going to make the very best of it.

The weather is relatively sunny for the end of September, so once they drop off their groceries at the cabin, they take the short drive to the beach. The ocean is still at low tide, but as they walk along the shore, the water begins to move in, slowly encroaching on the sand. The waves grow stronger and less predictable, pushing far into the land, so after a while Dean drags Castiel farther up the beach to sit down on a drift log.

“Should’ve brought a thermos,” he sighs, turning up the collar of his jacket against the wind. “I would kill for some hot coffee right now.”

“Are you cold?”

“A little. I mean, I’m used to California weather, you know? I feel like my face is all numb.” Dean rubs a hand against his cheek. It’s scratchy under his palm; he could do with a shave.

“Maybe I could do something about that.”

As Castiel pulls him in by the front of his shirt, Dean has a brief, absurd thought that it’s not what being hunted by the government should feel like. He should be frightened and on edge, looking over his shoulder every second of every day. He should be mourning the loss of his family, his friends, his future. He should rage against the injustice of it all, cursing Michael and Henriken and everyone else who forced him to flee like a common criminal. He should turn to either anger or depression.

Instead, he’s never felt more alive.

“I don’t think I can wait till we get back,” he whispers against Cas’s lips.

Castiel admits he doesn’t think he can either, so they leave the drift log at the mercy of the fast-approaching water and walk back to the car, their footsteps carried away by the roaring Pacific wind. In the backseat of the Honda, Dean straddles Cas’s lap and rides him until they’re both shaking with pleasure and exertion. When they get their breath back enough to look around, it’s a mess: there’s come on the seats, Dean has sand in his butt crack, and a sticky trail of lube somehow made its way onto the gear stick.

“Glad you’re here,” Dean says, face pressed into the crook of Cas’s neck.

“So am I,” Castiel says, fingertips tracing circles over Dean’s hips.

They clean up as best as they can, then drive until they find a diner they haven’t been to before. A waitress who introduces herself as Mel shows them to a table and recommends barbecue burgers as their specialty, so they each order one with a side of fries and a can of Coke. The very first bite proves that Mel wasn’t feeding them false advertisement; the burgers are so delicious that Dean doesn’t even chastise Cas for stealing his fries, too busy savoring the homemade BBQ sauce. (He does take a moment in between bites to flirt with Mel a little, mostly as an experiment, and revels in the way Cas’s eyes narrow dangerously.)

It’s already dark by the time they arrive home – or what passes as home, now. The lone naked light bulb under the ceiling blinks to life, illuminating their miserable lodgings, and Dean finds himself pinned against the door with a thick thigh between his legs.

“You flirted with our waitress.”

“You stole my fries.”

Castiel tugs hard on the zipper of Dean’s pants, a challenge in his eyes, and sinks down to his knees.

The hard wood of the door is the only thing keeping Dean upright as Cas takes him all the way in. Oddly, it feels like being held at gunpoint – and Dean knows what it’s like to stare down a gun Castiel is holding. He remembers the overpowering sense of danger, blood rushing in his ears, the urge to shut his eyes. He’s just as exposed now as he was back then. Just as breathless when Cas looks up at him and squeezes his hips as if to emphasize that he’s the one in control here.

One hand splayed flat against the door for support, Dean runs his fingers through Cas’s hair and down his cheek, feeling where it’s stretched around him.

This is the part where he usually grabs a fistful of hair to tug on and starts to rock up into his partner’s mouth, testing their limits, but Dean keeps his touches light and his hips still. Something in him revolts at the idea of being rough with Cas, of taking more from him than he already has. Maybe it’s Dean who should be on his knees right now.

Without warning, Castiel swallows around him, and Dean’s hands shoot out to brace on Cas’s shoulders. “Fuck.”

Apparently pleased with that reaction, Castiel hums and does it again.

“Cas, please.” Dean doesn’t know what he’s asking for at this point, only that if he doesn’t get it, he’s going to crawl out of his own skin.

Perhaps Castiel can read the desperation in his tone or body language, because he drops the teasing and goes all out, his fingers digging into the backs of Dean’s thighs as he picks up the pace. The sensation of a warm mouth working around him is one thing, but it’s ultimately the sight of Cas’s face, of the single-minded focus in his eyes, that does Dean in. He comes without a sound and slumps to the floor, his back sliding against the door until his eyes are level with Cas’s.

“Crap,” he says, reaching out a shaky hand to wipe away come caught at the corner of Cas’s mouth. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Castiel says. He takes Dean’s hand before it can withdraw and kisses his knuckles. Something in his expression tells Dean they’re not talking about blowjob etiquette. “Please don’t be.”

Dean waits until his breathing slows down to normal, then pushes Cas down to the floor and reaches for his zipper.

* * *

The whiplash of experiencing what is essentially a honeymoon phase in the midst of a life-changing crisis leaves Dean off-kilter. He got what he’s wanted for the past year – Cas without the lies, Cas in his bed – but the taste of it turns bittersweet whenever something forces him to face reality. And it happens every day, however hard he tries to forget, however small the reminder.

He remembers when he glances at his wrist out of habit, only to realize there is no watch there to check the time on.

He remembers when he discovers a gun under Castiel’s pillow while making their bed.

He remembers when he scans the front page of a local newspaper and sees the date: October 5th. Charlie’s birthday.

He remembers when he sees a beautiful Golden Retriever frolic around on the beach, deliriously happy as it pounces and chases the seagulls, and thinks, _Sam would be gone on him in a heartbeat._

It hits him hard every time, pulling him into dark thoughts like a weight around his neck. It dims his smiles, sours the taste of food, drains enjoyment from the little things.

He tries to hide it, but Castiel notices.

Castiel, who is either unaware or dismissive of the social convention of giving people space when they’re going through something difficult, gravitates towards Dean even more in those moments. He touches him with gentle hands; he says, “It will get easier” while running his fingers through the hair at Dean’s nape; he says, “It will get better,” brushing the words over Dean’s temple.

Dean nods along, soaking up the intimacy and words of comfort. He doesn’t point out how they both know Cas is wrong. He doesn’t ask questions crowding at the tip of his tongue. _How much money do we have left? How are we going to live the rest of our lives? Do you regret running away with me? Will you grow to hate me in a month, a year? Don’t you sometimes wish you’d never been assigned to me?_

He starts to feel cooped-up in the cabin. One morning, he wakes up so restless that he gets dressed and leaves for a spontaneous hike. He walks for what feels like miles, through the woods, across a local road, through the woods again, on and on until he ends up at the shoreline. There, he stands and stares at the waves crashing onto the empty beach, persistent and inexorable.

If one were to believe literature, looking across an ocean should be a freeing, gratifying experience that puts things into perspective and calms the mind. It should bring peace and clarity, but all it brings to Dean is a taste of salt on his lips. Dumb of him to expect answers from a body of water, anyway. He turns around and walks away without looking back.

It doesn’t occur to him how long he’s been gone until he approaches the cabin and spots a silhouette pacing the length of the porch. As he comes closer, he can distinguish dark hair, then a white t-shirt, then the agitated look on Cas’s face.

They meet halfway, on the trampled patch of grass leading up to the cabin, and for a second, Dean thinks Cas is going to hit him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think.”

Castiel stares at him, and says nothing.

“I needed some fresh air,” Dean adds. The inadequacy of his explanation makes him wince. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

Castiel’s throat works. “You should have.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

All words fall short, and Dean feels like an asshole. He didn’t mean to scare Cas. He should have woken him up, or left a note, or gone the fuck back to sleep.

He reaches out to take Cas’s hand, something loosening in his chest when Cas lets him. “Breakfast?”

Slowly, Castiel nods. “You’re making it.”

“I am,” Dean concedes. He’ll be the first to admit he deserves to be on permanent kitchen duty for the foreseeable future. “You want bacon?”

“Yes.”

Dean ventures a smile and leans in to press a belated good morning kiss to Cas’s lips. When his free hand lands on Cas’s hip, he recognizes the shape of a gun tucked into the waistband of Cas’s pants.

* * *

Castiel hears the car first.

He freezes with a fork halfway to his mouth, his eyes darting to the window. “Dean,” he says. Just that; just the one word. In the silence that follows, they both hear the unmistakable sound of a car engine, growing louder and more distinct as it gets nearer.

“Cabin guy?” Dean says, hopefully.

Castiel goes to retrieve his gun from under the pillow, then sneaks up to the half-open window and leans in a fraction of an inch, just enough to see and not be seen.

He clicks the safety off. “It’s the Dodge.”

It can’t be. They were so careful, drove so far, switched cars, left all traceable electronics behind, gave up—

“Dean,” Castiel says, urgent, and Dean realizes he’s been gripping the edge of the table hard enough to push splinters under his fingernails. “There’s a second gun in my suitcase. Take it and load it. Do you remember how?”

Dean barely remembers his own name right now, panic squeezing him tight by the throat, but he takes a hold of himself and runs to grab the gun. How did it go? Press the release knob – take out the magazine – push the slide back – insert the rounds –

The car rolls to a stop in front of the cabin. They hear the engine shut off, doors opening and closing.

“He’s alone,” Castiel whispers.

That makes even less sense. Either Henriksen expects Dean to be on his own, or he’s very sure of himself.

“Okay, I think it’s loaded,” Dean says. He grips the gun more firmly, his hand cold and clammy around it. His stomach roils at the thought of firing it, but if push comes to shove, he will. He will _not_ roll over and die.

The rotten wood of the porch stairs telegraphs Henriksen’s footsteps, creaking under his weight. Dean raises his gun with both hands and aims it at the door. As he holds his breath, it occurs to him that there’s no good outcome here. It’s a textbook lose-lose situation: either he dies or Henriksen does.

A gunshot splits the air, loud and sharp like a whip-crack.

At first, Dean assumes that it’s him. That amidst the nerves, his finger must have slipped onto the trigger. There was no kickback though, so his next thought is that Henriksen fired through the door without bothering to kick it open.

Then, he hears a light thud of something hitting the wooden railing of the porch.

“Fuck,” Henriksen says, muffled but unmistakably angry. “Don’t fucking shoot, Novak.”

Dean’s eyes flit to Cas, who has his back against the wall by the window, gun pointed outside at an angle.

“I just wanna talk,” Henriksen calls out.

“Is that why you came armed?” Castiel calls back.

“It’s a precaution. But since you just shot the gun out of my hand, you’re at an advantage. Can I come in?”

Dean and Cas exchange a look. “I don’t like this,” Dean whispers.

“Is that you, Winchester?” Henriksen hollers through the door. “How’s your vacay going?”

“Fuck you,” Dean snaps, louder.

“Agent Henriksen, I want to make sure we’re on the same page here,” Castiel says, re-adjusting his grip. “I have a gun trained on you. Why shouldn’t I take you out while I have the upper hand?”

“Because if I had come here with the intention of killing either of you, you’d be dead already. Like I said, I wanna talk. I might have a way outta this pickle. Unless, of course, you’re happy to spend the rest of your days on the run from me. Or,” he adds, as an afterthought, “from the next guy they send to hunt you down, should you choose to shoot me after all.”

It sounds fishy as hell. Still, Dean can’t fathom why Henriksen would go into the trouble of playing games with them if he could just storm their cabin with a SWAT team. They wouldn’t stand a chance.

“I vote we hear him out,” he says.

Castiel frowns at him, and Dean shrugs a shoulder. He’s not thrilled about it either, but short of gunning Henriksen down, they don’t have much wiggle room.

“All right,” Cas concedes. “Henriksen? You can come in, but keep your hands where I can see them. If you try anything, I _will_ shoot.” As he says this, he moves from the window to the center of the room, putting himself between Dean and the door.

With a creak of rusty hinges, the door slides open and Henriksen appears in the threshold. He looks road-rumpled, his canvas jacket creased in several places. Unhurriedly, he raises his hands in a lazy gesture of quasi-surrender. “Hey, gang,” he drawls.

“Strip,” Castiel commands.

Henriksen raises an eyebrow. “Is this encounter about to take a weird turn?”

Unamused, Castiel waves his gun at him. “Unless you can prove you’re not wired and don’t have concealed weapons, this conversation is over.”

Henriksen rolls his eyes, but complies. He shrugs off his jacket, rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, then lifts his arms and slowly turns around a full 360 degrees. He toes off his shoes, too, and shakes them out before putting them back on. “Happy?”

“As a clam,” Castiel says coldly. “Sit down.”

Henriksen sprawls in one of the chairs like he’s never been more at ease. His eyes flit from Castiel, who still holds him at gunpoint, to Dean, who slowly lowers his pistol. Somehow, he doesn’t think Henriksen will try anything.

“How did you find us?” Castiel asks.

“With great difficulty,” Henriksen admits. “You sure as hell didn’t make it easy.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Oh, I see. You want me to tell you so that you can avoid making the same mistake after you vamoose again.”

“Wouldn’t you do the same?”

“I would,” Henriksen allows. “But it’s not something you can run from, I’m afraid.” He looks between them and shakes his head. “Boys, in case you haven’t realized yet: you’re fucked.”

Dean snorts. “Thanks for the info, I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise.” His legs are still wobbly after the confrontation that never was, so he gives himself permission to lower his guard and sink onto a chair across from Henriksen. With Cas armed and Henriksen not, he supposes he’s as safe as he can be.

“You said you wanted to talk,” Castiel says. “So talk.”

“See, this is why we worked so well as partners,” Henriksen says pleasantly. “No nonsense. Love that.” He leans back in his chair and rests his arms comfortably in his lap. “Here’s the thing. I would hate to kill you, Winchester. You’re not my favorite person in the world—”

“Likewise.”

“—but putting a bullet in your head would seriously bum me out. So thank you for skipping town when you did. Now, the director charged me with finding and bringing you both back. I’ve already done the former, but I can hold off a little on the latter.”

“Why?” Castiel asks, at the same time as Dean says, “For how long?”

Henriksen gives them an enigmatic half-smile and drums with fingers on the tabletop. “I’m getting to that. I’ve taken the liberty of contacting a mutual acquaintance of ours. Found his number on the phone you so graciously left behind,” he adds, nodding at Castiel. “He has his hands full with Fulcrum, but he was very upset to hear about your little predicament.”

“You called Michael?” Dean asks, stunned. “What the hell for?”

“He was the only person I could think of who had both the resources and the motivation to help. Turns out, he’s been working on something ever since he left us. The guy’s a good multi-tasker, gotta hand it to him. He’s made inroads into taking down Fulcrum, but at the same time he managed to track down someone even the CIA had given up on.”

“Namely?”

Henriksen grins like a Cheshire cat, wider than Dean’s ever seen him do. “One Jody Mills. Former CIA engineer and the original designer of the Intersect.”


	8. The Plunge

“Hold on,” Dean says. “Hold on. I don’t— hold on.” He takes a deep breath, and tries again. “You mean to tell me that this whole time, the person who _made _the computer in my head was out there and you didn’t think to ask for her help?”

“She’s been in the wind for years,” Henriksen explains. “I didn’t know anything about her until three days ago. Novak?”

“Me either.” Though obviously still distrustful, Castiel pulls up the third chair and sinks into it, pointing the gun muzzle at Henriksen’s knee.

Henriksen doesn’t seem bothered by it. “Let me paint you a picture,” he says. “Mills started working for the CIA in the early 2000’s. She designed all kinds of surveillance gear and software I’m sure Novak here has used on many occasions, but her crowning achievement was of course the Intersect. She was the brains behind the whole project. You remember our old friend Doctor Bevell? Small fry. From what Milton has told me, everyone who worked on the Intersect had access to selected parts of it. As chief designer, Mills was the only one who saw – and understood – the way these parts came together.

“Things got dicey as more people began to realize the full potential of the Intersect. The soon-to-be Fulcrum peeps started campaigning for more experiments with transferring the database directly into the human brain, and Mills grew suspicious of what the government intended to do with the Intersect. Then there was a break-in in one of the CIA facilities. The intruder was captured – Russian intelligence, apparently – but it was a wake-up call for her. She made something every government on the planet would kill for, and she could do it again if someone forced her to by, say, threatening her family. So she split, and no-one’s seen her for the past three years. Her team managed to finish the Intersect without her, though I doubt any of them truly understood how it works.

“Now, don’t ask me how, but Milton has managed to get in touch with her. He wouldn’t tell me where she’s hiding – good call, by the way – but he told her that her computer was successfully uploaded into this poor son of a bitch” – he nods at Dean – “and asked if it could be removed. She said yes.”

Dean’s breath leaves him in a whoosh. He’s gripped by an overwhelming urge to cry with relief, but he’s not sure he should trust a single word that comes out of Henriksen’s mouth.

Castiel seems to have similar concerns, and he has no qualms about voicing them. “You do understand how unbelievable that sounds? Michael unearths some long-missing scientist the whole of CIA wasn’t able to find, she just so happens to have a way to remove the Intersect… It’s all awfully convenient.”

Henriksen heaves an impatient sigh. “Why on Earth would I lie to you? I could be halfway back to L.A. by now, with you two tranq’ed in my backseat. Yet here I am, helping out like the good Samaritan that I am. I know it sounds cockamamie, okay? But like it or not, it’s your best bet. If the Intersect’s out of the equation, the problem disappears. Winchester is no longer a threat to national security and we all go back to our day jobs.”

Dean catches Cas’s eye. They could still tie Henriksen up, dump him in the woods and then book it, preferably to the other coast. Except—

He already found them once. It would be only a matter of days, maybe weeks, before he did it again, and he might not be as cooperative the second time around. Slowly but surely, they’re drowning. They can paddle on their own until exhaustion takes over and they go underwater, or they can catch the lifeline and hope there’s somebody holding the other end.

Looking into Cas’s eyes, Dean knows he’s thinking the same. He nods, and Castiel nods back.

“Fine,” Dean says. “How would that work?”

The corner of Henriksen’s mouth ticks up in a pleased smile, but when he speaks, it’s all business. “Mills has been working on a device that’s gonna remove the Intersect images from your head. She’d be able to explain how it works better than me, but she doesn’t wanna risk meeting with anyone other than Milton. Once the device is ready, she’ll give it to him, he’ll pass it to me, and I’ll pass it to you.”

Dean bites his lip in thought. “When you say device...”

“Hey, don’t ask me. I’m just the brawn here,” Henriksen shrugs. “I’m sure she’ll leave us instructions.”

It doesn’t fill Dean with confidence. There’s still an obvious risk here, and once again it’s Cas who puts it into words.

“Is it safe? The human brain is an intricate, delicate thing. How do we know this device won’t erase too much information?”

“You don’t. You just gotta trust that the woman who invented this whole damn thing knows what she’s doing.” Henriksen crosses his arms over his chest, lifting his chin up. “Take it or leave it.”

Dean leans across the table to touch Castiel’s elbow. “Sidebar?”

In the end, it’s an easy choice. “It’s dangerous,” Cas says. “It might kill you,” he says. “It might damage your brain, affect your speech, your hearing, your vision. You might lose your memory. You might forget your friends, your family. You might forget who I am and who you are.”

“I know,” Dean says. He cups Castiel’s cheek, and tries to talk past the lump forming in his throat. “And I would take a life on the run with you over that risk any day, Cas. Even if it meant stealing and hiding and sharing a cabin with rats and roaches.” He musters up a thin smile. “But we’re at the end of our rope here. It’s not playing Russian roulette with my brain versus a lifetime with you. It’s that or what – a week? a month, if we’re crafty enough? – and then it’s over. Vic tracks us down again, but this time he puts me down like a dog. If there’s even the smallest chance that this works and I walk away a free man, I’m gonna take it.”

Dean doesn’t know if he expects resistance or acquiescence, but what he gets is a sad smile. The usual flicker resident in Cas’s eyes vanishes like somebody has blown out a candle. Dean hates it.

“Okay,” Cas whispers. He wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrist and lowers his hand from his face. His thumb brushes Dean’s pulse point. “Your choice.”

* * *

Computer genius or not, it takes Jody Mills two more weeks to finish working on her Intersect-removing device. She knows they all have a fire under their asses, but she refuses to be hurried.

“If you want it to work, be patient,” she says. Or, that’s what Henriksen says Michael said she had said. While Dean understands that the game of telephone is a necessary safety measure, it doesn’t make it any less ridiculous.

Much to Dean’s surprise (and relief), Henriksen decides to leave them alone. In his own words, he’s “done babysitting” and has “no intention of watching them suck face and mope around until the device is ready”. He saves the number of Castiel’s burner phone in his contacts, gives them both a mock salute, and jumps behind the wheel of the Dodge.

“Where are you gonna go?” Dean asks through the SUV’s open window.

Henriksen slides his sunglasses to the tip of his nose and looks down at him over their edge. “Road trip, I guess. Officially, I’m still searching for you two yahoos, so my car better have the mileage to prove that.” He puts the key into ignition, and the engine purrs to life. “Milton and I arranged to have a drop-off in Nevada, so I might head to Vegas to kill the time.” He gives Dean a wry smile. They both know he can’t; if somebody sees him playing slot machines while he’s supposed to be chasing down an asset and a rogue CIA operative, he’s going to be in serious trouble.

“Well, drive safe.”

Henriksen puts his hand over his heart in feigned indignation. “Never.”

Dean huffs a laugh and steps back to let Henriksen turn the car around. He doesn’t have the words to express how grateful he is, and even if he did, he doubts Henriksen would appreciate the mushy talk. Silently, he joins Cas on the porch, and they both follow the Dodge with their eyes until it disappears behind the trees in a cloud of road dust.

* * *

Days are quiet in the wake of Henriksen’s departure. They spend them in more or less the same fashion as before – walks on the beach or into the nearby woods, Dean cooking meals, Cas cleaning his guns, occasional grocery shopping – but the mood shifts. It’s a subtle change, and Dean wouldn’t be able to put a name to it. It’s something about the way they move around each other, the way he finds Cas staring at him with a forlorn look in his eyes. The way Cas holds him tighter when they go to bed, draping himself over Dean’s back and pulling him in by the waist hard enough that Dean has to tap his hand to ask for air.

In an unspoken agreement, they don’t talk about the future. Dean wants to, sometimes, if only to check whether Cas is as scared as he is, but he always ends up biting his tongue. If these are his last days, he will not waste them on wallowing in self-pity and feeling sorry for himself.

Temperatures begin to drop, and they have to bundle up in long sleeves when they go to the beach. The wind blowing in from the ocean is merciless, whipping their faces as they trek along the coastline shoulder to shoulder.

“I take back everything bad I’ve ever said about California,” Dean says, raising his voice to make himself heard over the wind and the waves. “I was not made to withstand temperatures below 60.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow at him. “I wouldn’t have guessed you were so thin-blooded.”

“I’m normal-blooded, thanks a lot.”

Dean takes a few more steps forward before he realizes the space on his left is empty. He turns around, and sees that Castiel has stopped in his tracks. “What?”

Cas’s expression remains neutral, but a spark of mischief lights up his eyes. In quick, efficient movements he sheds his jacket, then t-shirt. As he starts to unbutton his pants, Dean’s brain finally kicks back online. “Cas, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Going for a swim,” Castiel says, matter-of-fact. He folds his clothes in a neat pile and puts his shoes on top so that nothing gets swept away by the wind. Dean swallows as he takes in the view, miles and miles of naked tan skin. It’s nothing new at this point, and yet—

“Quit staring and undress,” Cas says. He rubs his arms to warm up, then stretches them high above his head. The movement draws Dean’s eyes to the toned muscles of Cas’s stomach and the narrow trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistline, so it takes a few seconds for Cas’s words to register. Once they do, Dean splutters in indignation.

“You want me to _go in the water_? Forget it, Cas. If you wanna play polar bear, that’s fine. I’ll cheer you on from here.”

“Have you ever actually tried polar bear plunges, or any sort of ice swimming?”

“Of course not. I’m not a masochist.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “It’s very good for your health, you know.” He walks closer to where the waves wash up on the sand and waits until a bigger one comes to lap at his toes. He doesn’t flinch at the contact. “Besides, this isn’t even true ice swimming. The water isn’t frozen and the air temperature is over 50.”

“Still a no from me.”

Another wave comes, sloshing over Castiel’s ankles.

“My teeth are chattering just from looking at you,” Dean says. “Come on, you’ve proven your point. You’re tougher than me, now get dressed before you catch pneumonia.”

Looking over his shoulder, Castiel shakes his head. “I’m not trying to prove a point.” He turns around and walks farther into the surf, waves frothing and crashing over his shins.

“Cas!” Dean calls out. He’s not sure what he’s asking for, and it doesn’t surprise him when Castiel doesn’t answer. He’s still in shallow water, safe and ankle-deep, yet far enough that Dean needs to shout for the words to reach him. “Cas, come on now! You’ll get hypothermia.”

This time, Castiel says something back, but the wind snatches it away. “Fuck,” Dean mutters. “Fuck. I cannot believe – Jesus.” He takes off his shoes and socks, then rolls up his jeans as far up as the denim will allow.

The first splash of water on his skin is agonizing, and Dean yelps, jumping back onto the sand. “Cas, you’re crazy,” he yells.

Castiel turns around and gives him a small wave. He’s wading parallel to the beach now, not venturing deeper.

Cursing under his breath, Dean braces himself for attempt number two. “Come on,” he mumbles to himself. “Like a Band-Aid.” He inhales the salty air, closes his eyes, and takes a step into the water.

Excruciating cold envelops his feet, raising goosebumps on his skin and sending a chill up his entire body. It’s like standing in a bucket of ice. He doesn’t retreat this time though; propelled by sheer spite, he wades in until he’s close enough to wrap his arms around Cas’s waist. He tucks his mouth against Cas’s ear and says, “I’m gonna murder you.”

The threat doesn’t make much of an impression. Castiel turns around within the circle of Dean’s arms and cups his face. His hands are freezing, but Dean doesn’t shake them off.

“No, I’m pretty sure this is the part where you’re supposed to kiss me, actually.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Dean says.

Cas’s lips feel like ice against his, but his tongue is warm as it licks into Dean’s mouth. With his arms still wrapped loosely around Cas’s back, Dean presses himself closer, seeking any warmth Cas’s body can provide.

“Why are we doing this here,” he sighs when Castiel begins to mouth at his jaw.

“Because I wanted to see if you would come after me,” Cas says, like it should be obvious. “I’m touched that you did, by the way.”

It’s probably meant to be teasing, but there’s a note of honesty in his voice that stops Dean from volleying back a snarky comment. Instead he runs his palm down Castiel’s spine, tracing the knobs of his vertebrae. With his other hand, he tips Cas’s chin up to kiss him again, soft in defiance of bitter cold and biting wind.

They’re both shivering too much to stay in the water for longer, so they slowly wade back onto the beach. For lack of a better alternative, Dean dries his feet with his jacket, and Castiel does the same with his.

“This whole thing was so stupid,” Dean complains as he rolls his socks on.

“And yet you joined in,” Cas retorts breezily.

At home, they change into dry clothes and Dean makes them hot coffee that thaws out the last tendrils of lingering chill. With mugs in hand, they settle on the dilapidated couch, as uninviting as ever with its springs poking out through the threadbare fabric and hardly big enough for two grown men to sprawl on. Dean’s eyelids begin to droop, but he doesn’t want to call it a night yet, not when Cas leans into him and starts talking in hushed tones about the health benefits of cold baths. And then about the dangers of rip currents (Dean isn’t in the least surprised that Cas knows exactly what to do when you get caught in one). And then, for some ineffable reason, about the differences between seabirds and shorebirds (apparently, the latter don’t have webbed feet). They drift closer as the night wears on, Dean’s head finding its way into Cas’s lap and Cas’s fingers – into Dean’s hair.

If Dean were asked to imagine a perfect life, it would be a sum of evenings like this.

* * *

Henriksen calls them late on a Thursday afternoon and right off the bat, he says: “We’re ready to rock and roll. The device is finished and Milton has already dropped it off. Now all I need is a day or two to drive up to the coast.”

And just like that, it’s T-minus 48 hours to either freedom or disaster.

Dean does his best not to show it – they’re both sufficiently freaked out already – but he’s a walking bundle of nerves. His appetite drains away like even his stomach has shrunk in fear. Within two hours of Henriksen’s phone call, he finishes the bottle of wine him and Cas opened yesterday, then almost gets into a car accident as he drives to town to buy more, so distracted that he only looks one way before merging into traffic. In the store, he bypasses the wines and goes straight for the whiskey.

He expects a lecture when he gets back to the cabin, but Cas takes one look at the bottleneck sticking out from Dean’s paper bag and goes to fetch glasses.

They don’t get wasted. Drunk, yes – but tastefully, in Dean’s opinion. Just enough to keep the dark thoughts at bay, but not to take sex off the table. Dean strategically waters their Jack down, and pays special attention to when Cas’s movements become looser and less coordinated. Once they approach dangerous territory, he confiscates the bottle along with the rest of its contents.

“Dean,” Castiel rumbles, making a grabbing motion. “There’s still a lot left.”

“And we can finish it tomorrow,” Dean says, putting the bottle out of Cas’s reach. Despite feeling only slightly buzzed, he flounders to disentangle his limbs as he crawls into Cas’s lap and pulls him into a kiss. “You taste like a liquor store.”

“You can talk,” Cas says, clutching at Dean’s hips.

If there’s one thing drunk Dean doesn’t have, it’s patience. Sober, he could make out with Cas for hours, content to be held and feel the breadth of Cas’s thighs forcing his legs apart. With the Jack coursing in his veins, he tugs at Cas’s shirt right away, rucking it up to feel the skin underneath. He’s greedy and desperate, and want clouds his mind almost as much as the alcohol does.

In their inebriated state, the transfer from the couch to the bed is somewhat of a struggle, but they make it with minimal losses.

“Dean,” Castiel mutters, scraping his teeth down Dean’s neck. “What do you need?”

For tomorrow to never come; for the two of them to stay in the bubble of tonight with the whiskey and the heater groaning in the bathroom and the wind rattling the windows.

Dean says nothing. He rolls onto his stomach and cants his hips up, sighing at the first press of Cas’s mouth against his tailbone.

* * *

It’s pouring rain when the Dodge pulls up in front of the cabin, its wipers working furiously over the windshield. Puddles have already formed in the dips along the dirt road, sloshing water left and right under the SUV’s wheels.

Through the window, Dean watches as Henriksen shuts the car door and dashes through the sheet of rain with his jacket pulled high over his head. There’s a suitcase in his hand, and Dean’s heart picks up when he sees it.

Obviously feeling at home, Henriksen comes in without knocking and shakes himself off, dripping all over the floor. “Fucking biblical out there,” he grunts instead of a hello. “You boys mind offering me a hot drink?”

Glad for having something to do with his shaking hands, Dean makes them all coffee, adding a thimbleful of leftover whiskey to Henriksen’s for good measure.

“While I enjoy this,” Henriksen says, taking the mug from him, “you can read the letters.”

“Letters?”

The latch on the suitcase pops open, and Henriksen produces two manila envelopes, one thick, one thin. Neither is signed.

“This one’s from Milton,” he says, pushing the smaller envelope into Dean’s hands.

Tearing it open, Dean finds a single folded piece of paper inside. The letter reads:

_D.,_

_Last time we saw each other, I promised to make it right. I know this doesn’t cancel out everything you’ve been through, but it’s the best I can do._

_Please know I’m sorry I dragged you into all this. I can’t even imagine how stressful these past months must have been for you. You handled it like a pro._

_I know this next part is scary, but I promise you that it’s less dangerous than what you’ve already survived, and once it’s over, you’re free. And I swear I’ll never bother you with my bullshit again._

_Good luck,_

_M._

_P.S. My last visit at your place gave me the impression that you might have gained something valuable from this fiasco after all. Good for you._

Dean reads the post scriptum twice, and then the whole letter again. Oddly, he finds himself smiling at the familiar loopy Gs and slanted Ts. He pored over so many of Michael’s notes back at Stanford, he’d recognize that handwriting anywhere.

“What does he say?” Castiel asks. He’s sitting close enough that he could look over Dean’s shoulder and find out, but he resolutely keeps his eyes on his coffee mug.

“Nothing much, really,” Dean says, folding the letter and stuffing it back into the envelope. “He’s very vague. I think he was afraid to write more in case the letter got into the wrong hands. In short, he apologizes and says I’ll be fine.”

“Illuminating,” Henriksen comments. He takes a swig of coffee and nods at the other envelope. “Now for the fun bit.”

“We must have very different definitions of fun,” Dean says. He aims for flippant, but it falls flat.

When he tears the flap open, he finds four items inside the envelope: three blank pieces of paper and a pen rolled up in bubble wrap. He takes them all out and lays them on the table so that Cas and Henriksen can see. “Does anyone have any idea what I’m supposed to do with this?”

“Well,” Castiel says thoughtfully, “we were promised a device and instructions on how to use it. So I’m guessing that’s what we got.” He takes one of the pages and examines it at various angles. “My money’s on invisible ink. It’s weak protection, but maybe she didn’t want to waste time on codes.”

Not so long ago, Dean would have said it’s a sign of paranoia. Now, he sees it as resourcefulness.

“She wouldn’t expect us to have ultraviolet light at hand,” Castiel continues, “so she most likely used heat-sensitive ink. Excuse me for a second.” Gathering all the pages, he goes to the kitchenette, turns on the stove and places the paper over one of the burners. Even from his place at the table, Dean can tell when ink begins to develop, dark brown letters appearing on the surface of the paper. All three pages receive the same treatment, and when Castiel brings them back, they’re covered in neat, dense handwriting.

“Go ahead,” he says, handing them to Dean.

Dean takes a deep breath, and reads aloud:

_First of all, I’m sorry._

“I like this apologizing trend,” Dean says under his breath.

_When I first designed the Intersect, I never imagined the kind of havoc it would wreak. It was supposed to be a useful tool for cross-referencing intelligence and detecting threats to national security, not a weapon. It’s not an exaggeration to say that it ruined my life, and from what I’ve heard, it ruined yours too._

_I doubt I’ll ever be able to return to my family, but I did everything in my power so that you could return to yours. Before I tell you how to remove the Intersect, there are certain things I’m guessing nobody told you that you deserve to know._

_First, the fact that you survived the upload is incredible. By my estimates, only 5% of the general populace would._

_Second, there is a reason experiments with human Intersects were discontinued. Each database access (“flash”, as I’m told you call it) puts a strain on your brain. The more flashes you experience, the more likely you are to suffer side-effects such as dizziness, temporary memory loss and more. Individual reactions will vary, but you should be fine provided you didn’t flash more than 50, 100 times at most._

Dean lifts his head and catches Cas’s eye. “How many do you think there were?”

“Fewer than 20,” Castiel says. “Unless you flashed left and right without telling me.”

Henriksen waves his hand impatiently. “You’re fine. Keep reading.”

_It’s the reason Fulcrum will never succeed, even if they manage to steal the Intersect or build their own, and even if they find people capable of surviving the upload. It’s not sustainable, and it never will be._

_Enclosed with this letter you will find a device I designed for you. It’s disguised as a pen in case somebody intercepts the package. It has a micro camera on the side, under the cap. Take it out and take a look at it before you read further._

Dean pauses, and watches as Cas unwraps the pen. It does look completely normal, black with a gold clip. After removing the cap, Castiel turns the pen around until he spots a small, inconspicuous opening near the tip.

“So far, so good,” he says, and nods for Dean to continue.

_Once you’ve located the camera, look at the top of the pen. There’s a button there you will need to press. Do not press the button before you’ve finished reading the instructions. When you press and hold it for three seconds, the camera will display a series of encoded images. Those images should, in theory, cancel out the Intersect images._

“In theory,” Dean mutters.

_Here’s how to do it:_

_Have somebody stand in front of you and hold the pen level with your eyes at a distance of approximately two feet. Be sure to look straight into the camera. Once you’re ready, the person holding the pen should press and hold the button to initiate the sequence._

_ Do not look away until the sequence is over. _

_ Make sure no one except for you looks at the images. _ _ Any people present in the room should close their eyes before the button is pressed._

_After the sequence is complete, you may experience some short-term side-effects. I’m not sure what they might be, since what we’re doing here is unprecedented, but I’m pretty confident they should be temporary._

Dean swallows. “Pretty confident” isn’t the same as “confident”. It all sounds just vague enough to be terrifying.

_Once the Intersect is successfully removed, you should destroy the device._

_Good luck and enjoy the rest of your Intersect-free life,_

_Jody_

_P.S You have a very devoted friend. I know he’s the reason you became a human Intersect in the first place, but you should know he was incredibly adamant that I agree to help you._

Dean lowers the letter. The knot that started forming in his stomach when Henriksen arrived has turned painful, but there’s no reason to delay the inevitable. They know what to do and how to do it; it’s time to cross the Rubicon.

“Will you do it?” he asks, offering Castiel the pen.

Holding Dean’s gaze, Castiel takes it. “Of course.”

They stand facing each other in the middle of the room, the prescribed two feet between them. Dean feels as if he’s going to faint, but Cas – Cas looks so pale he’s almost transparent.

“Hey,” Dean says. He reaches out to squeeze Cas’s free hand, interlacing their fingers. Bravely, he summons a smile to his face. “See you on the other side, right?”

“Hey now, no weepy bullshit,” Henriksen says. He comes up to them and claps Dean on the back, a little less forcefully than Dean’s used to. When he takes place behind Castiel’s shoulder, there’s a worried crease between his brows that belies his nonchalance.

Looking at the two of them, Dean’s struck with the realization how lucky he was to have them as his handlers. If any piece of this puzzle hadn’t fallen into place – if Cas hadn’t grown to care for him, if Henriksen hadn’t gone out of his way to contact Michael and get help, if they both hadn’t disobeyed orders in one way or another – Dean would be dead as a door nail right now.

Of course, he still might be in a minute or two.

He watches as they close their eyes, hears the soft click of the button being pressed, focuses on the small dot on the side of the pen as the seconds pass – one, two, three – and braces against the flood of images.

* * *

He wakes in increments, and the first thing he registers is the sound of voices arguing loudly above him.

“It’s been too long,” one of them says. It’s deep and pleasant, but there’s a waver to it that would make Dean frown if he could remember how to do it.

“Relative to what?” another voice demands. Although it’s deep too, it’s harsher, sharper. “He could be out for hours for all we know.”

A beat of silence, punctuated by a soft rustle of fabric. Somebody heaves a sigh, and the breath tickles the hair on Dean’s forehead. It’s the first non-audible sensation he’s aware of, and it startles him so much he jolts. Or he should, except his body doesn’t move.

Something warm touches his cheek, then slides to rest in the crook of his neck.

“His pulse is a little fast,” the first voice says.

Floorboards creak as someone begins to pace the room (is he in a room? He must be), but the hand remains on his neck, now joined by fingertips running lightly over his jaw. It feels nice. He wishes he could lean into it.

“We’ve already waited twenty minutes,” the pacing voice says. “Let’s at least wait a full hour until we start to freak out, okay?”

“I’m not freaking out,” the first voice grits out. “I’m perfectly fucking calm.”

For some reason, the f-bomb elicits a chuckle from Dean, one that turns from a light giggle to an asthmatic rattle somewhere on its way from his brain to his throat. He coughs and swallows. God, there’s a lot of saliva in his mouth right now. It’s disgusting.

“Dean?” the first voice says, alarmed, hopeful. “Dean, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?”

Dean gives it a go, and lo and behold, he can. He squints against the sudden brightness, waiting until his eyes adjust. Then someone leans over him, blocking out the light, and Cas’s face comes into view, tense and tight with worry. Everything snaps into place; of course that’s Cas’s face. It was Cas’s voice just moments ago. And it’s his voice now as he repeats, “Dean?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean says, forcing his facial muscles to form a smile. He tries to raise his hand, and much to his surprise, it works. Granted, he misses his target by a few inches, but Castiel takes his hand and puts it against his cheek like he knows what Dean meant to do. His bottom lip is unusually red; he must have been biting it.

“How’s your head?” he asks.

Dean considers this for a moment. His body feels heavy and uncooperative, his throat dry, his mouth like a carpet, but his head is light. Not that he’s light-headed, it’s just – light. Unweighted.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Haven’t had any complaints.”

There’s silence, and then—

Somebody guffaws, the sound accompanied by a loud thigh-slap. “And he’s back!”

Dean grins. “Since when do you appreciate my humor, Vic?”

Henriksen’s face appears over Castiel’s shoulder, grinning back at him. He doesn’t even protest at the nickname, and if that isn’t a clear sign of true relief, nothing is. “Come on, sit up. We have one last test to run.”

With a little help from Cas, who slings his arm around Dean’s waist, Dean manages to get himself vertical. It’s only then that he realizes they have carried him to bed, and that Castiel has been kneeling next to him on the floor.

“I have a picture of a guy who’s in the Intersect files,” Henriksen says, swiping his finger across his phone screen. “See if you can flash on him.” He sticks the phone under Dean’s nose, and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Dean looks at the picture.

At first glance, the man’s appearance makes him think of someone who’s been living under a bridge most of their life. He has messy graying hair curling over his forehead, a prominent nose, a scraggly beard, and an unkind twist to his mouth. There’s nothing familiar about him. No name comes to Dean’s mind as he studies the wrinkles around the man’s eyes.

With barely contained glee, he hands the phone back, and announces: “I’ve no idea who this hobo is.”

“In that case, congratulations,” Henriksen says. “You’re officially Intersect-free.”

Dean sags against Cas’s shoulder, his eyes sliding shut. He made it. The pen-like device worked, the computer was removed, and his brain didn’t get terribly damaged in the process. He’s off the hook and free to live out the rest of his life without the government breathing down his neck.

He feels so light he could float away.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Castiel whispers while Henriksen goes to fetch the pen and destroy it as per Jody’s instructions.

Dean breathes out a laugh. “I’m fucking fantastic, Cas. Well, the waking-up part was not very pleasant, but it’s over.” It feels unreal to be able to say it. “The whole shitshow is over, and I’m free. We all are.”

“Yeah,” Castiel murmurs, and kisses the side of Dean’s head. “Yeah, we are.”

Something about the way he says it gives Dean pause. He turns to look at him, but Castiel doesn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he watches Henriksen stomp on the pen, one, two, three times until it breaks under his boot.

“Cas?”

“Yes?” Castiel says, wincing when pieces of plastic go flying as Henriksen grinds the pen’s remains to the ground.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re not looking at me, and you don’t seem all that happy.”

Cas’s eyes zap back to Dean. He doesn’t look sad, not exactly, but there’s a slight downturn to his mouth. “I am happy. It’s just...” He sighs. “Dean, you were unconscious for almost half an hour. I still had my eyes closed when I heard you hit the floor. I carried you to bed, I checked your pulse and your pupil response and – I was beside myself with worry. I thought you wouldn’t wake up, or that you wouldn’t recognize me once you did. The fact that you’re here, alive and well and talking to me, is— I’m so relieved I don’t know what to do with myself.”

That, Dean can definitely relate to.

Still, he can’t shake a nagging sensation of uneasiness, this disturbing feeling of _that was too easy_ and _the other shoe’s about to drop_. He lets Cas pull him upright, staggering a little before he finds his footing, and watches Henriksen throw the broken pieces of the pen into the trash can. Over and done, just like that.

“All right kids, I’ll give you 10 minutes to pack your shit and then we’re moving out,” Henriksen says, making a show of dusting off his hands. “It’s a thousand miles back to L.A., so we better get cracking.”

As they begin to gather their things, Dean’s surprised to discover how many have accumulated over the past weeks. Him and Cas came here with very few personal belongings, just a duffel bag and a small suitcase respectively, but as time went by, new purchases started appearing – small, basic items to make their lives easier and more comfortable. Towels, because those they’d found in the bathroom were disgusting; magazines and cheap paperbacks, because the fall evenings were too long to fill them solely with sex (they did try, valiantly, but they’re not teenagers anymore, and the refractory period is a bitch); two extra pillows, because the sad sacks of flattened feathers they had to sleep on that first night left Dean with a crick in his neck. And that’s not even mentioning all the food: coffee and tea, honey and milk, cereal and Oreos.

Cleaning out the cupboards, Dean finds himself fighting off a smile. Somewhere along the way, despite the uncertainty of tomorrow, they’ve made themselves quite at home. He can’t wait to do it again in a place that can truly be theirs.

They leave the keys under the worn doormat and their stolen car parked behind the cabin. Their landlord looked shady enough, Dean thinks he might just take it for himself and not bother to question how they managed to leave without it.

He still feels a little out of it after the Intersect wipe (he smirks; looks like he’s wiped in every sense of the word), so he lets Cas drive shotgun and settles in the back of the SUV, head pillowed on his arm where door meets glass. The last rays of sunshine set the woods around them alight, casting long, deep shadows over the dirt road as they head towards town. Struck by sudden nostalgia, Dean turns around to take one last look at the cabin before it disappears among the trees in the soft, dark shimmer of dusk.

* * *

About halfway between Sacramento and Stockton, Dean’s contentment wanes and gives way to nerves. He fidgets with his seat belt, casting a glance at the backseat where Henriksen dozes. Him and Cas have switched places at a rest stop near Redding, determined to drive overnight instead of looking for a motel. In less than five hours, they’re going to be home.

Somehow, Dean hasn’t yet thought about what awaits him there. He was so stoked at the prospect of seeing his family again, he completely forgot how much explaining he’s going to have to do. He can’t just walk into the apartment as if he hadn’t been gone for weeks. He left them a cryptic note and then fucked off to a different state without a proper goodbye – they’d be right to be _furious_ with him. Even if Sam and Sarah don’t, then Charlie’s going to kill him for sure.

“What am I gonna tell them?” he mutters, pressing his head against the window. It’s so dark outside, he can’t make out anything other than the white dashes on the asphalt, caught in the SUV’s headlights. The engine rumbles softly, punctuated by Henriksen’s snores.

Castiel shifts in his seat. “Tell them you’re sorry.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Besides the obvious, Cas.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to give them details,” Castiel says, undeterred. “Even if it wasn’t classified, I doubt they’d be inclined to believe you.”

Dean hums in thought. He tries to imagine how he would go about telling Sam the truth, and it sounds ludicrous even in his own head. “So get this, for the past year I had a computer full of top-secret intelligence in my head, my boyfriend and our neighbor were actually government agents this whole time, then the computer was rebuilt so I became obsolete and they tried to kill me, I went on the run with Cas, who by the way went from my fake boyfriend to real boyfriend shortly thereafter, then Michael found a way to remove the computer from my brain – oh yeah, Michael got me kicked out of school to protect me and also he never hooked up with Cassie, crazy right? – and long story short the computer’s out and here I am again, can I join you guys for dinner?”

Dean scoffs under his breath. Sam would take one good look at him and send him to get his head checked out.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you better advice,” Castiel says. He looks out the window, his face turned away from Dean. “I can’t speak from personal experience, because every time I’m re-assigned, there’s no one I have to leave behind. But they love you, Dean, and they will forgive you. Just… give them time and repent.”

“Give them time and repent,” Dean repeats. “Catchy. Maybe I’ll put that on a t-shirt.”

Castiel breathes out a silent laugh. His eyes find Dean in the dark, soft and fond in the glow of the headlights, and something in Dean’s chest leaps wildly, then settles.

He doesn’t dare examine it too closely – not now, when he’s hours away from being swept into a whirlwind of excuses and apologies – but he thinks this might be It.

* * *

They stop for gas only 50 miles outside of L.A., dawn breaking in pale blues across the sky. Henriksen jolts awake as they pull up next to the gas pump, and offers to fill up the tank.

Grateful for a chance to stretch his legs, Dean rounds the car and leans against the hood to watch the silhouette of San Emigdio Mountains visible in the distance. At 7 a.m., the highway is deserted and cold, only an occasional car passing by with a rumble that stirs the chilly air. Dean rubs his arms to chase away the goosebumps.

“You should put your jacket on,” Castiel says. He leans on the hood to Dean’s left and looks out over the mountains, too. He’s not wearing much himself, just a dark blue Henley that’s way too thin to offer any warmth, but the temperature doesn’t seem to bother him much. Not surprising, considering their last trip to the beach.

Dean slides his butt across the hood until they’re shoulder to shoulder. There are different ways to warm up, and leeching off of your boyfriend because you’re too lazy to go pick up your jacket is certainly one of them. “Where’s Vic?”

“He went to pay for gas and get snacks.”

“Snacks,” Dean repeats. They still have some trail mix and two packs of beef jerky in the glove compartment, and they’re less than one hour away from their destination. “Huh.”

“And while we’re alone,” Castiel segues, “there is something I wanted to tell you.”

Dean goes very, very still.

He wanted so badly to be wrong. To have imagined or misinterpreted Cas’s subdued smile, the way he didn’t let himself be swept by relief when the Intersect wipe was successful. And now here it comes. The other shoe.

“I’m sorry I waited this long,” Cas says. He doesn’t look at Dean; his eyes scan the horizon, up and down as if he’s following the dips and peaks of the mountainscape. “But it seemed unfair to deliver bad news when such a huge burden had just been lifted off your shoulders. So don’t be mad at me. I only wanted to give you one more day.”

Dean’s throat clicks. “One more day of not knowing _what_?”

“That I’m leaving.”

Dean shakes his head before he knows what he’s doing, because— no. He couldn’t have heard that right. There is no way, no _universe_ in which he goes back to his old life without Cas in it after everything they’ve been through.

“Let me explain,” Cas says, his tone careful like he doesn’t know what kind of reaction to expect. He turns a little to look Dean in the eye, and his shoulder withdraws, leaving Dean shivering again. “Once we drop you off at home, Henriksen and I are flying to Washington. He will give his report and I’ll give mine. I imagine—” Castiel sighs, looking down at Dean’s hand like he wants to take it in his. He doesn’t. “I imagine I will have to pay dearly for my disobedience. The CIA doesn’t take kindly to insubordination. I’m not sure if there’s precedent for a case like this, so how they’re going to punish me is anyone’s guess.” He smiles bitterly. “I think it’s safe to assume I won’t be CIA by the end of it. I asked Henriksen about this and he doesn’t think what I did qualifies as treason. Even so, I might be looking at some sort of confinement.”

Dean makes an effort to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Like prison?”

“Not a regular one, no. A CIA detention facility, more likely. I really don’t know what’s going to happen, Dean. All I can do is hand myself over and see. I just want you to know that if I’m gone for long, it’s not because I don’t plan to come back. It’s because I can’t.”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. All the scenarios he imagined in the last days revolved around his fear of what would happen if the device didn’t work, and what that would mean for _him_ – brain damage, memory loss, even death if worst came to worst. He was so wrapped up in his own dread, he made the dumb assumption that what would be a positive outcome for him would also be one for Cas – for everyone, really.

He can’t believe he let himself be so damn selfish.

For a few absurd seconds, he thinks that they could run again. Ditch Henriksen again, steal a car again, live like outlaws again. Maybe they would go east this time, to Arizona or New Mexico. Live on a ranch somewhere.

He blinks the delusion away. Of course they can’t do any of that, for a multitude of reasons, the most important being that Cas won’t allow it. Dean doesn’t even have to ask him. Time for running is over; Dean gets to resume living his life like nothing happened, and Cas gets to pay for it.

“Dean,” Cas says softly. He reaches out to swipe his thumb under Dean’s eye, gentle over the delicate skin. “My choice, remember?”

Dean wishes he didn’t. He nods.

He doesn’t know what to say. It’s a goodbye, after all; they’re saying goodbye. He should come up with something profound and meaningful. He should make sure Cas knows how much these past weeks meant, how grateful and undeserving Dean feels of what Cas has sacrificed for him, how he will wait for him no matter how long it takes.

All he can articulate is, “Will you make it home for Christmas?”

“Hopefully,” Cas says. “If not, I will send you a postcard.”

Dean heaves something between a laugh and a sob. “Yeah,” he manages. “Okay.”

Before either of them can say anything else, Henriksen returns with an armful of snacks and a carefully blank expression that makes Dean think he knows what they’ve been talking about. His tone is studiously neutral when he settles behind the wheel and says, “All right, then. Almost there.”

They drive the last stretch of road in silence.

* * *

They park at the curb of Dean’s apartment complex just as the 8 o’clock news report comes on the radio.

“Well, thanks for the lift,” Dean says. His hands are shaking like he’s going through withdrawal, so he clasps them around the strap of his duffel bag.

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” Henriksen says. “Take care, kid.”

“You too.”

The Dodge’s engine idles, and the only thing running through Dean’s head is white noise. This is it. Just like that. _Bye, Cas. Bye, Vic. I’ll see you when I see you._

The silence that falls over the car is so heavy, Dean’s heart almost leaps out of his chest when Cas breaks it, throwing the passenger door open and stepping onto the sidewalk.

“I’ll be back in two minutes, Victor. Dean?”

Dean scrambles out of the car and shuts the door, clutching the duffel to his chest. “Will you go in with me?” he asks, nodding towards the archway entrance leading up to the courtyard.

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to intrude on a family reunion,” Cas says. He steps closer, slow and deliberate, and takes Dean’s face in both hands. His gaze drops from Dean’s eyes to his mouth. “I just wanted to say a proper goodbye.”

Back in the day, Dean had perfected the art of goodbyes. The key was to walk away grateful for the memories, not disappointed that there wouldn’t be more. And he wants to feel grateful for the time they’ve had, he truly does. But it would be easier if the injustice didn’t tug at his ribs; if the unfairness didn’t leave a sour taste in his mouth. The strategy isn’t working because this isn’t them parting. This is them being pulled apart.

He draws Cas closer by the waist, kisses him gentle and sure. His duffel lies forgotten at their feet as he tries to commit every single detail to memory, from the way Cas’s fingertips brush over Dean’s jaw to the way his head tilts to deepen the kiss. Right now, Dean can’t imagine ever forgetting any of it, but in a day, a week, a month – these little things will begin to fade, spilling like sand between outstretched fingers, and Dean won’t be able to stop their flight.

“You know what’s funny?” Cas says when he pulls away, just enough to look Dean in the eye. His mouth is pink and shiny, and Dean already mourns not being able to kiss it tomorrow.

“What?” he asks, self-indulgently running the pad of his thumb over Cas’s bottom lip.

“In the end, I did exactly what Michael had.”

Dean makes an effort to get his mind out of the gutter and lifts his eyes to meet Cas’s. He frowns as the meaning of his words fully registers. “What do you mean?”

“I felt so righteous, thinking he betrayed the agency in a way I never would. I thought there was nothing that could sway me from my duty. And then I did the same thing that I scorned Michael for doing. I grabbed the Intersect” – he smiles, giving a gentle tap to Dean’s temple – “and I ran.”

“Yeah, except he was cleared of any wrongdoing, wasn’t he,” Dean says, bitter. “Because of that whole Fulcrum business. And you won’t be.”

“He was trying to protect the agency,” Cas shrugs. “I was trying to protect you.”

Henriksen blows his horn, and both of them jump a little at the sound. Dean lost track of time, but they must have taken way longer than two minutes.

Fighting the sting in his eyes, Dean leans in one last time, cradling Cas’s face like he could keep him here with that grounding touch alone. He does a decent job of keeping himself in check as Cas kisses him back, making that soft sound in the back of his throat that makes Dean weak in the knees, and later, as he watches Cas get in the passenger seat and fasten his seat belt. Henriksen puts the car in gear and pulls out onto the street. Within a few seconds, the Dodge turns around the corner and out of sight.

Mechanically, Dean picks up his duffel and walks into the courtyard. Instead of heading to his apartment, he drops down onto the wide ledge of the fountain basin and leans his elbows on his knees. He sits there for God knows how long, staring unseeingly at the cracks in the concrete tiles under his feet and struggling to pull himself together. He needs to put a stopper on whatever it is he’s feeling in favor of preparing for Sam and Sarah’s inevitable questions and reproaches.

It doesn’t work. His thoughts keep scattering all over, seemingly random bits and pieces playing on a loop. The Intersect might be gone, but his own memory is a vast database that hasn’t been erased. It flares to life without any prompting, without a trigger, and pulls him into the past against his will.

Dean presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. It’s worse than the flashes. It’s a taunting, never-ending parade of images he can’t block out by not looking. It’s a denim jacket _(__My phone’s acting up on me. I was hoping you could help me?). _It’s a dark rooftop _(Dean, look at me, not at the gun). _It’s a warm hand guiding his own on the slide of a Glock _(You didn’t think Castiel Novak is my real name, did you?). _It’s cheek kisses, innocent, awkward, unsatisfying _(I don’t want to make this hard on you)._ It’s a loud argument in the middle of the night (_You knew this was a cover) _and an ice cream parlor bathed in afternoon sunlight _(I haven’t done as much pretending as I should have)._ It’s borrowed sheets stretched over a lumpy mattress _(It’s me. It’s all me)_ and hands tugging impatiently at his clothes, lips on his neck, eyelashes fluttering against his skin—

“Dean?”

He flinches and looks up.

Sarah blinks at him, her eyes wide with shock. Her fingers flex around the trash bag clutched in her hand. Not enough time passed for anything in her appearance to change; it’s all achingly familiar, from the messy ponytail to the dainty teardrop pendant around her neck.

“Dean,” she whispers. The trash bag drops to the ground with a sad flopping sound, and Dean braces for – something. He doesn’t know. A slap, maybe. He probably deserves it.

A pair of hands tugs him upright.

“Dean,” Sarah repeats, though this time the surprise in her voice gives way to something tender and sad. She stands on her tiptoes and holds him tight enough to make his bones pop.

Belatedly, Dean raises his arms and hugs her back, forcing a hoarse “hi” out of his throat. The anxiety drains from his body with every second she’s there, her relief palpable and contagious. When she starts to lean away, Dean’s reluctant to let her. Fuck, he missed her so much. He hasn’t even realized.

“Hey,” she says. Her finger pads brush under his eyes, wiping something away. Shit, is he crying? It doesn’t feel like he is. “Hey, it’s okay,” she says again. “Let’s go in. Sam’s already left for work, but I have the day off. Come on.”

He lets Sarah guide him inside and sit him down on the sofa. She brings him a glass of water, coaxes him into drinking it, and doesn’t ask any questions. She’s just there, waiting.

They wait together, silent, until Dean finds it in him to speak.

He starts with “I’m sorry,” then pauses to gather his thoughts. When you can tell neither the truth nor a lie, there isn’t much left. “I got mixed up in something I can’t talk about, Sarah. You deserve to know the truth but I just—can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to, I really can’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She sighs, leaning back on the couch. For a moment, she watches him, eyes flitting back and forth between his. Dean resigns himself to her scrutiny.

“Are you safe?” she asks at length.

“Yes.”

“Are we safe?”

He jolts. “Of course, Jesus—I would never have come back if it put you guys in any kind of danger, I swear.”

She nods. “All right. In that case, I only have one more question.”

She calls it a question, but it doesn’t sound like one. It sounds like an assumption of loss. “Cas?”

He stares down at his lap, unblinking.

“Sam started calling people as soon as he found your note,” Sarah says quietly. “Cas was the only one who didn’t answer. Was he with you?”

Dean nods.

“Did he come back with you?”

“No,” Dean says. “He—” His voice gives up on him, so he shakes his head.

Sarah doesn’t manage to get anything else out of him, and when Sam comes back from work hours later, he doesn’t either. He freezes in the doorway, then pulls Dean into a bone-crushing hug, then shakes him by the shoulders and says, “Why?” and “How could you?” and “Don’t ever do that again”. Through it all, Dean follows Cas’s advice: he repeats “I’m sorry” so many times it loses its meaning, doesn’t offer any details, and repents with his head bowed low.

He feels like laughing at his own stupidity when he remembers how he pictured his return home. How foolish he’s been, thinking it would be a happy reunion, something triumphant and joyous. All he succeeded in doing was ruining Sam and Sarah’s day.

“I’m sorry,” he says again when he meets Sam in the kitchen later that evening.

Sam throws the fridge door open. “Stop saying that.”

“Okay.”

Sam grabs a yogurt and slams the door shut. He hip-checks Dean to get to the drawer and fishes out a spoon. “Will you ever tell us what happened?” he asks, directing his words at the yogurt container.

“No.”

“Will you tell us where Cas is?”

“No.”

Sam tears off the yogurt lid and dumps it into the trash can. “He’s our friend, Dean. That’s not fair.”

Sam’s right. It’s not.

“He’s in D.C.,” Dean says. He figures that much is allowed. “I don’t know when he’ll come back.”

Sam leans against the counter. He eats one spoonful of yogurt, then another. The silence hangs heavy between them, full of unasked and unanswered questions. “He was the one who dragged you into whatever it was, wasn’t he.”

Dean’s head snaps up, but Sam is staring at his spoon. “No,” Dean says, firmly. “None of this was his fault. He was only trying to help.”

Sam nods and doesn’t ask anything else, so Dean puts his empty mug in the dishwasher and retreats to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Everything inside is exactly the way he left it. The clothes that didn’t fit in his duffel lie discarded on the bed. A layer of dust has gathered on the desk and the bookcase. His phone sits on the nightstand, its battery long dead.

Dean unpacks his bag, stuffing everything back into drawers where it belongs, then crawls into bed. He slides his hand under the pillow, but his and Cas’s CIA watches have disappeared. “Vic,” he mutters to himself. Probably better this way. Dean wouldn’t know what to do with them, anyway.

Briefly, he considers recharging his phone, but the thought of seeing all the missed calls and messages makes him nauseous.

He doesn’t change into his pajamas, or brush his teeth, or do anything other than lie in bed, wide awake long after the light goes out in Sam and Sarah’s bedroom. It’s been almost a month since he had to fall asleep alone and to his horror, he discovers that he can’t remember how. There has always been an empty space on the side of his bed, but it never took Cas’s shape before. It never had a face, a voice. It was never this hard to ignore.

Dean curls up on his side, close to the edge of the bed, and desperately tries to locate the home-coming happiness he should be feeling.


	9. The Landing

“I hate you,” Charlie says, and smacks him across the chest. It’s not a full-on punch, but it’s hard enough to make him stagger backwards. “I hate you so much, Dean Winchester.”

Dean says nothing. He does straighten up to give Charlie a better target in case she wanted to take a swing at him again.

“You better have a good explanation for this. You better tell me you’ve been abducted by aliens, or dragged to the Upside Down, or—”

“I got nothing.”

Charlie stares at him. Her hands are clenched around the strap of her purse, her bottom lip trembling ever so slightly. Dean aches to hug her, but something tells him he’s not allowed to yet.

“Are you back for good or are you gonna disappear again?”

“For good.”

“And I suppose you want to pick up where we left off, like nothing happened.”

Dean shakes his head. “No. If you’re mad at me, be mad. It’s okay.”

“Gee, thanks,” she jeers.

Dean flinches. “I didn’t mean—” He runs both hands through his hair, closes his eyes. Breathes. “What I wanted to say is, take your time. Yell at me or punch me, I don’t care. Just don’t leave. I can’t deal with any more leaving.”

Dean isn’t sure what gives him away – the expression on his face, the waver in his voice, or maybe it’s just that Charlie knows him too well – but when he opens his eyes again, she’s standing closer, head tilted back to compensate for the height difference between them. He can practically see the cogs in her head turning.

“You look sad,” she says bluntly. “And I should still kick your ass, but I’m gonna put it on the back burner.”

That’s more than Dean could have hoped for. Turning up at Charlie’s apartment today, he fully expected to have the door slammed in his face. “Thanks,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” she replies, dry as the desert. “Now since you’re already here, give me a lift to work.”

They drive in silence, tense and uncomfortable, until Charlie turns on the radio. She finds a pop station and throws Dean a challenging look just as Demi Lovato sings the first notes of _Sorry Not Sorry_.

“Oh, I see,” Dean says. “I’m supposed to put up with your music to atone.”

“It’s a start.”

Dean turns up the volume. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Charlie’s mouth tick up.

When they arrive at the Buy More, Dean figures that he might as well come inside with Charlie and grovel for his old job back. His entrance causes a huge commotion, the Nerd Herders and the green shirts alike crowding to pat him on the back and ask him where he’s been.

“Away,” he says. “No details, sorry guys.”

To his surprise, no one seems mad about his refusal to explain his disappearance. Adam nudges him under the ribs and says “Can’t blame ya”; Andy waggles his eyebrows without any comment; Garth proclaims that “Sometimes a mental health day is a mental health month,” nodding to himself as if he just imparted some great wisdom.

The only person who doesn’t take his return in stride is Bobby. When Dean knocks on his door and enters his office, he only has the time to say a few words of welcome and apology before all hell breaks loose.

“You got some chutzpah, boy,” Bobby growls. “You ditched me like a prom date and now you march into my store expecting to get your job back?”

“I’m just asking,” Dean hurries to explain.

“And I’m just telling you to get the hell out.”

“Bobby—”

“A month!” Bobby yells. “A month without as much as a text!”

Dean stands there and lets Bobby scold him like a naughty child, listening to a list of progressively creative insults and accusations. When Bobby finally runs out of breath, Dean nods and says, “Sorry. I’ll get out of your hair now.”

He moves to the door, but Bobby springs out of his chair and blocks his way with speed Dean would never suspect him of. “Not so fast, princess. You’re not going anywhere until you explain why you bailed on us.”

Dean groans internally. Here we fucking go again. “It’s private, Bobby. I’m sorry.”

“Couldn’t you have called?”

“No.”

“Couldn’t you have asked someone to call instead?”

“No.”

Bobby huffs. “You’ve gotten yourself into some serious trouble, have you?”

“You’ve no idea.”

Bobby frowns, staring at him intently. Dean starts to regret he came to the store (did he really think this would end well? Jesus, he must be losing his mind), but then something in Bobby’s expression cracks. He runs a hand over his beard and shakes his head.

“You’re lucky I haven’t hired anyone in your place,” he says gruffly. “You start tomorrow, same pay, same responsibilities. But pull a disappearing act like that again and I’ll fire your ass so fast it’ll make your head spin. Permanently. Are we clear?”

Dean assures him that they are, and that he will not betray Bobby’s trust.

His Nerd Herd team welcomes the news with so much enthusiasm, Dean has to take a minute to compose himself. It didn’t occur to him they would be in any way affected by his absence, but they seem genuinely happy to have him back.

And just like that, life goes back to normal – or as normal as it can get, because Sarah keeps eyeing him like she expects him to break down in tears, Sam wears his hurt on his sleeve, and Charlie throws herself from anger to worry back to anger.

Dean supposes that all of those reactions are valid in their own way.

A week passes. Then another, and Sam finally smiles at him. One more, and Charlie asks if he wants to come over for a BoJack Horseman marathon. Four weeks in, Dean starts to feel as though he’d never left.

The guys at work tell him that he’s quieter than before.

“That impromptu vacation got you all zen,” Andy says, sliding two dollars into the coin slot. The vending machine rattles and spits out a can of Coke.

“I’m not zen,” Dean says absently.

“Yeah, you are. All broody and shit. Or is that a mid-life crisis?” Andy grins.

“Shut up, you’re not that younger than me.”

“Oooh, touchy.”

“Leave him alone,” Charlie butts in, shoving Andy’s arm as she passes him. She draws up a chair and sits next to Dean, asking him a quiet “You okay?”

“Of course,” he replies automatically. That’s his go-to answer these days. Of course he’s okay. Of course he’s fine. Of course he’ll stay after hours to do inventory – what’s he going to do at home but mope, anyway. Of course he’ll make dinner. Of course he will join them for movie night. Of course he will do anything they ask of him, agree to anything, go anywhere. Everything he does now is an act of apology.

Charlie sizes him up. “Will you give me a lift home after work?”

“Of course.”

“Will you come upstairs? We could order Chinese.”

“Sure.”

A deep frown creases Charlie’s forehead, but she doesn’t call Dean out on his yes-man attitude. “It’s a date, then.”

“It’s a date,” he echoes.

They end up ordering Thai over Chinese, and eat it straight from takeout containers, not bothering with plates. An episode of Battlestar Galactica plays in the background, but neither of them pays much attention to it. They’ve both seen it before, anyway.

Charlie’s foot nudges Dean’s thigh. “So,” she begins, all casual. “Cas.”

Dean chokes on his noodles.

“And there it is,” Charlie sighs, clapping him on the back. “Were you ever going to stop pretending you’re okay?”

_I am okay,_ Dean wants to say, if only out of habit. Instead, he clears his windpipe and stays silent.

“Can’t you just… talk around the details you can’t give me?” Charlie pleads. She folds her legs under herself and scoots closer on the couch, her shoulder bumping against Dean’s. “At least try. I can’t help if you don’t talk to me.”

Dean stabs his noodles with a fork. “It’s not your job to help me.”

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Charlie spats, with so much vehemence Dean recoils. She purses her lips and takes a breath; when she speaks again, it’s much calmer. “You’re not getting off this couch until you talk.”

He could always leave. He could. The downside of this plan is that there’s a very real possibility Charlie would tackle him the second he made a move to get up, and getting into a tussle with her is the last thing Dean wants to do. Their friendship is tenuous enough as it is right now. No need to add accidental injury to the mix.

Eyes downcast, he scrapes his fork against the bottom of the takeout container. There’s still some food inside, but he’s no longer hungry. “We weren’t together,” he says, so quiet that Charlie has to lean in to hear him. “Me and Cas. It was all fake.”

Charlie opens her mouth, presumably to protest, but then closes it. She waits.

“He was—” Dean breaks off, grits his teeth. “You know what? I don’t fucking care anymore. He was CIA. And Vic, remember Vic? The grumpy green shirt? NSA.”

Charlie reaches out to pause the episode and shut the laptop. “CIA and NSA,” she repeats. “Dean, you better not be taking the piss.”

“Do I look like I’m taking the piss?”

Charlie looks him in the eye. Dean has only seen her this serious twice: when John left, and when Dean returned home after getting kicked out of school.

“They did come to town at the same time,” she says, considering. “But why?”

Dean shakes his head. He’s already said more than he should. “Let’s just say there was something here they needed to keep an eye on.”

“Was that something you?”

Jesus. This is not going to work. Charlie’s too smart.

“Maybe.”

“So that’s a yes. What changed, then? Why did you run?”

Dean bites his lip. He doesn’t want to freak Charlie out by admitting somebody was sent to off him, but anything less doesn’t justify the abrupt way he left. “I… my existence became uncomfortable for some people.” Is that vague enough? He hopes so. “I wanted to say goodbye, I swear, but there was no time. Cas just showed up and told me we needed to run, so we ran. I thought it would be forever. I thought I would never see any of you again.”

“Oh, Dean,” Charlie sighs.

“We, um. We dropped the fake relationship while we were away, and went for the—the real thing. But then we got some help and it turned out we could go back after all and look, here I am.” He gestures to himself with a flourish, a lame attempt to lighten the mood.

Charlie grabs his flailing hand with both of hers. If she feels the tremor running through it, she doesn’t mention it. “And Cas? Why hasn’t he come back with you?”

Dean stares a hole through Charlie’s carpet. Once he says it out loud, he’s going to have to face it. He’s going to have to let himself feel the full extent of his guilt. Because ultimately, that’s what it is; it’s not just him missing Cas or being worried about him. It’s guilt.

“He will,” Dean says. “He will come back. He just – the CIA isn’t all that happy that he helped me. They wanted him to stand down, and he hasn’t, so. It might be a— a while before they let him go.”

“Let him go,” Charlie repeats slowly. “Dean, that sounds like he’s in jail.”

“He might be,” Dean says woodenly. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Not only does he not know, but he has no one to ask. Both Cas’s burner phone and old phone are out of order, the line silent every time Dean tries to call, and it’s not like he can just speed-dial Langley and ask for an update.

Charlie must have a million more questions that Dean wouldn’t blame her for asking, but she doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push for answers Dean can’t or isn’t willing to give. Her hands are still wrapped around one of his, and she doesn’t let go as she leans back against Dean’s arm, chin on his shoulder. “That’s so fucked up,” she mutters.

Dean nods in agreement. It really is.

For a while they just sit there, Charlie humming in thought next to Dean’s ear. Overall, he thinks she took the news exceptionally well. Hell, she _believed_ him. That’s already more than he could have hoped for.

“Always knew you’d find it,” Charlie says after a long stretch of silence.

Dean tries to look down at her, but only manages to bump his chin against the top of her head.

“Huh?” he says intelligently.

“Always knew you’d find it,” Charlie repeats, louder. “And by ‘it’ I mean someone who puts you first. No offense, man, but you’ve always dated people that I like to call lukewarm. Lisa and Mick in high school, even Cassie later – none of them have ever put you first, not when it mattered. I’m glad to see you’ve finally broken the pattern.”

“Really, Charlie? _That’s_ your take away from that story?”

Charlie shrugs. “You won’t give me details. All I can glean is that Cas had a choice to make, and he chose you. So yeah, that’s my take away. And now…” Pulling back, Charlie reaches behind herself, grabs a pillow, and proceeds to smack Dean over the head with it.

He yelps in indignation. “What was that for?”

“For lying for months,” Charlie says, and smacks him again. “And that’s for moping around for weeks instead of telling us what’s wrong.” Another smack. “I thought I’d taught you better than that.”

Dean grabs Charlie’s wrist and hijacks the pillow before it can strike him again. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Yeah, never lie to Charlie again. Noted.”

“Not just to me. Sam and Sarah, too.”

“Charlie…”

“You already told me, so it’s no harm now. Leave out the deets, fine, but tell them.”

“Charlie,” Dean repeats with a weary sigh.

“Tell. Them. They need to know.”

So he tells them, of course he does. Charlie’s right; the damage is already done.

Speaking past the dryness in his mouth, he explains the lies, the false identities, the reasons for his departure and return. He says everything he possibly can, offers all the truths he can afford, and when Sam apologizes for reacting harshly, as if any of it was his fault, something in Dean snaps in half.

He doesn’t get angry or yell, because there’s no point. He doesn’t break down and cry, because that would just be tacky. All he does is sit there, mute, face in his hands, torn between anguish for what he’s lost and profound, unrelenting, overwhelming gratitude for what he could come back to.

* * *

Two weeks before Christmas, Dean decides it’s time to make his signature gingerbread cookies. The recipe is actually his mother’s, one of the only ones she had written down before she passed away, but Dean has been recreating it every Christmas for over a decade now, perfecting it and experimenting with different colors and flavors of icing. In the Winchester household, it became as much of a Christmas staple as the tree and the gift-giving. Scratch that; Dean’s pretty sure Sam could do without the tree and the gifts, but he would throw a fit if Dean refused or forgot to make the gingerbread.

“You sure you don’t want any help?” Sam asks, the way he always does.

“You can help me by getting lost,” Dean replies, the way he always does. He pulls a jar of honey out of the cupboard and inspects its contents, pleased to see that there’s enough left from last year. “Seriously, beat it,” he adds when Sam still loiters in the kitchen, poking his head into the grocery bag sitting on the counter. “I thought you and Sarah were going shopping for presents.”

“We are,” Sam says, tapping his finger on the pastry board.

“Hey, hey! Get your germy hands off my board.”

Sam smirks. Undeterred by Dean’s exasperated huffs, he hovers over his shoulder as Dean gathers all the ingredients and lays them out on the counter, dry on one side and liquid on the other. So Dean’s a little OCD like that, sue him.

Sarah appears in the kitchen just as Dean dives into the cabinet to find a mixing bowl and measuring cups. “Ready to go,” she announces, hastily pulling her hair into a bun on the top of her head. “Come on, we have plenty of errands to run. You’ll be alright, Dean?”

“Oh my God, will you both just scram,” Dean says, but smiles nonetheless. “Go buy me something nice.”

“Will do,” Sarah says, patting his arm as she passes him. “Good luck, chef.”

Once alone, Dean turns on old-school Christmas music on full blast and sets about preparing the dough. He has the whole recipe memorized, so he works fast, not needing to look up the ingredients and the amounts. There’s something incredibly calming about following the familiar steps, sifting the flour, adding honey, sugar and eggs, then putting in some good elbow grease into kneading the dough. He slips around the kitchen in his socks, singing along to “It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas”, then tries (and fails) to hit the low notes in “Winter Wonderland” as he does the dishes while the dough chills in the fridge. He’s just about to finish cutting out the first batch of gingerbread men, placing them neatly on the baking tray, when Darlene Love’s voice seeps through the speakers. He starts to sing along with her, too focused on spacing out the gingerbread men to register the lyrics. If the gaps are too small, the cookies are going to stick to one another once they grow in the oven, and he can’t have that.

Unapologetically off-key, he hums, “Pretty lights on the tree...” One of the little guys came out of the cookie cutter with one leg shorter, so he balls it up and sets it aside to redo later. “I'm watching them shine...” He sifts out some more flour onto the pastry board so that the dough won’t stick to it. “You should be here with me...” He grabs the rolling pin. “Baby, please come home...” Mid-roll, he freezes, eyes widening.

The song continues, transitioning from an instrumental part to another verse to an endless repetition of “Please come home”, and Dean stands in the middle of the kitchen, covered in flour, staring at the rolling pin in his hands.

When the last note fades out and Burl Ives chimes in with “A Holly Jolly Christmas”, Dean slowly goes back to flattening the dough. He swipes back and forth, back and forth until the dough is so thin it rips. He balls it up and tries again, gripping the handles of the rolling pin so hard his knuckles turn white.

He works through “Driving Home For Christmas”, “Wonderful Christmastime” and “Merry Christmas Everyone”, but when “All I Want For Christmas Is You” comes on, he shuts off the playlist and continues in silence.

In the absence of music, it’s easy to hear the soft tap that comes from somewhere inside the apartment a while later. Dean frowns and shuts the oven door, setting the timer for another 10 minutes. Hesitantly, he follows the sound out of the kitchen and into the hallway, wondering in passing if he should grab something heavy as a weapon.

There’s another tap, this one more insistent. It’s coming from Dean’s bedroom.

He pushes the door open and lets it swing all the way back, revealing an empty room, unmade bed, laptop charging on the desk and a pile of laundry on the chair.

_Tap, tap._

Dean looks towards the source of the noise, and startles when he sees a dark silhouette hovering behind the window. The man catches his eye and gives him a small wave.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Dean asks as he opens the window.

“Nice to see you too,” Michael says. “You alone? I didn’t want to knock on the front door in case your brother’s home.”

“I’m alone,” Dean says, flinching when he realizes how true it rings. He steps aside and lets Michael slip inside over the window sill, shutting the window after him. Michael looks around the room with mild interest, taking in the mess, and Dean feels himself flush with embarrassment. “Meant to clean up later,” he mumbles, kicking his messenger bag under the desk.

“You offend me. We used to be roommates, remember? This room will be spotless within the next twenty-four hours and we both know it.”

Dean rolls his eyes. Back at Stanford, their dorm accumulated mess faster than Japanese businessmen accumulate air miles, and while Michael simply let it be, Dean tended to run around picking things up and doing his damnedest to tame the clutter. As a result, their room was often in disarray, but it was surface-deep; not the kind of mess you need hours to clean.

“I’m assuming you didn’t come here just to check if I’m still a clean freak.”

Michael smirks. “No, I know you are.” He makes himself comfortable on Dean’s bed, unbothered by the rumpled sheets, and looks up at him. “I have something for you.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Is it a Christmas present?”

“You could call it that.” Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, Michael produces a large, thin envelope.

“I hope it’s a puppy,” Dean deadpans, taking it from him. The envelope is plain white, but when Dean turns it over, he notices the Stanford University logo in the upper left corner. He looks up in confusion.

“Just open it,” Michael says.

It’s odd that Dean received more old-fashioned paper mail in the last month than he did in the past five years, while somehow managing to bypass the US Postal Service altogether. He’s about to make a comment on it when he realizes what he’s holding, and it stuns him so much he forgets to breathe for a second.

Written in an Old English, barely legible font is a document proclaiming him a Bachelor of Science.

“What the hell is this?”

“Your college diploma.”

“I can see that,” Dean huffs. He runs his finger over the three signatures at the bottom of the page. They appear to be authentic. In fact, the entire document looks legit. “What did you do?”

“Pulled some strings,” Michael says, clearly proud of himself. “Not at Stanford,” he adds, seeing Dean’s incredulous expression. “At the CIA. I convinced them that you deserve a little reward for the months you spent serving your country. You know, flashing and putting your life in danger without any pay or compensation. They did the rest. Your name is cleared, by the way. Oh, and the last eight credits you needed were put on your transcript as field work.”

Dean gapes at Michael, then at the diploma, then back at Michael. “This is real,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Like, I could put on my CV that I have Bachelor’s from Stanford and it would track.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve graduated.”

“You can rephrase it all you want, it’s still gonna be true,” Michael says, grinning. “You’re a Stanford graduate, Mr. Winchester. Congratulations.”

Dean lets out a long exhale, clutching the diploma in his hands like he’s afraid Michael will snatch it back from him. With a clean record like that, he could do anything. He could apply for a job in a software company. He could get into programming again. He could finally make more money than the minimum wage. He could— Jesus. He could start designing laptops instead of fixing them.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

Michael shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. You worked hard for it.”

Dean hums. Actually—

“Damn right I did,” he says. Unable to stave off a dopey smile, he slides the diploma back into the envelope. Sam is going to flip his shit when he finds out.

“By the way,” Michael adds. “In case you wondered, Fulcrum is mostly taken care of. Some minnows have slipped through, but the CIA has all the big guns under lock and key.”

“Already? Wow. You really are a super spy.”

“Not a spy.”

Right. The CIA officers are not spies. Cas explained that to Dean once.

The thought of Castiel drags Dean back from cloud nine to planet Earth, casting a pall over his daydreams of a brighter future as a kickass programmer at Google or Microsoft. It also makes Dean realize that he has an invaluable opportunity to suss out if Michael knows anything.

“Not spies, got it,” he mutters. He puts the envelope on his desk and taps it with his finger, stalling as he casts about for a subtle way to phrase his question. “Listen, since we’re talking CIA business… you wouldn’t happen to know what’s going on with Cas, would you?”

Michael tilts his head and gives him a long, assessing look.

The tips of Dean’s ears burn, but he doesn’t break eye contact.

“Not officially,” Michael says. “But I did hear a thing or two through the grapevine.”

“A thing or two,” Dean repeats.

Michael sighs. “The director is pissed. She considered Cas to be her best guy, and to have him go against her like that… From what I gathered, it’s not just about insubordination. She took it personally.”

Dean swallows. “But that can’t play into whatever disciplinary action she takes, right?”

“The CIA isn’t above the law,” Michael agrees. “If she wanted to incarcerate him, she would have to take him to court, and she doesn’t have sufficient cause. Besides, no judge in their right mind would sentence him for treason.”

Dean’s whole body sags with relief. “So he’s not going to jail?”

“No. Well, they probably used some loophole to keep him, shall we say, _supervised_ while dealing with his dismissal, but they’re gonna have to let him go eventually, no matter how furious the director is. But I heard that she plans to ax him hard. It’s like dishonorable discharge from the army. He won’t find a job in any government-operated agency now. Plus they’re gonna take his apartment, of course.”

“_What_?”

“You didn’t know?” Michael asks, his voice colored with genuine surprise. “On paper, his apartment in D.C. belongs to the CIA. They set him up there right after he joined.”

Dean swipes the pile of laundry to the floor – it’s clean and waiting to be folded, but screw it – and falls onto the chair. Here he is, celebrating his long overdue graduation, making plans for the future, and overall better off than he was before this whole stint. Meanwhile, Cas is about to be jobless and homeless on the other side of the country, suffering the consequences of caring more than he should have.

“But why is this taking so long? It’s been weeks.”

Michael looks at him with something like sympathy; like pity, almost. “I told you, Naomi went ballistic on him. She could just fire him and be done with it, but that would’ve been too kind. She pushed the date of the disciplinary hearing under the pretense of gathering evidence, and has him under house arrest – again, under the pretense of making sure he doesn’t leg it. She’s just being spiteful.”

Dean nods absently, but his mind is already five steps ahead. Bobby won’t be happy about him taking time off right before the biggest rush of the year. The plane tickets won’t be cheap, especially with the holidays around the corner. The flight will be a nightmare like always, hours spent trapped in a metal tin (so what if Dean is an engineer; just because he understands how the plane stays in the air doesn’t make it _okay_). He might need to find a hotel, too, depending on how the situation develops. It’s possible he won’t even make it back to California for Christmas if—

“When’s the hearing?” he hears himself ask.

“On the 15th, I think.”

“Of December?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have his address?”

“Yes, but—”

“Write it down for me.”

“Dean.”

“I’m not asking, Michael.”

“Dean.”

“What?”

“Something’s burning.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Oh, _shit_.”

He races to the kitchen like the hounds of Hell are on his heels, but it’s way too late for the gingerbread men. By the time he wrenches the oven door open, all of them have turned into unattractive lumps of charcoal. Dean swears under his breath as he inspects the damage; not a single one is salvageable. “Fuck me,” he groans, knocking his head against the nearest cupboard. It might be just the one tray, but in all the years he’s been baking gingerbread, he’s never burned any. Ever.

Grumbling, he sets the tray on the counter to cool and turns on the range hood to vent the smoke. “Rest in peace, guys,” he tells what’s left of his pastries.

When he goes back to his bedroom, he finds it empty. Before he can get mad, he notices a piece of paper sitting on the desk, weighted down by Dean’s own cell phone. Under a hastily scribbled address, it reads: _Merry Christmas. If you ever need anything, hit me up_, followed by Michael’s phone number.

“In your dreams,” Dean mutters. He tears off the part of the page with Cas’s address and places it carefully in his wallet, then throws the rest of it into the trashcan by the desk.

* * *

The cab pulls up at the curb, rain pelting over the roof in an incessant assault. Through the downpour, Dean can just barely make out the shape of an apartment building perched on the corner of the street, most of its windows illuminated with warm, yellow-tinged lights.

“You got an umbrella, man?” the cab driver asks.

Dean shakes his head as he digs around for his wallet. “Call me crazy, but coming from L.A., it didn’t occur to me to take one,” he says, handing the driver a few crumpled dollar bills.

“Ah,” the guy says. “Welcome to D.C., then.”

“Thanks,” Dean sighs. He’s going to have to make a run for it.

Pushing the door open, he’s met with the distinct scent of wet concrete and a gust of wind that blows the raindrops at an angle, directly in his face. Spluttering, Dean raises his arm over his head and scrambles out of the cab, hoisting his duffel over his shoulder. As soon as he pushes the door closed, the cab darts off into the night, sending fountains of water splashing under its tires.

While he waits for the elevator, Dean tries to shake off the water that managed to sneak its way under his collar and to make himself as presentable as possible. No easy task, considering he just spent five hours in the air, squeezed in between a college student whose music blared loud and distracting even through the headphones, and a chatty middle-aged woman who told Dean she was heading to meet her first grandchild, and proceeded to explain in excruciating detail how long she’d waited for one of her good-for-nothing children to finally settle down and start reproducing. Dean cringes at the mere recollection.

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and takes Dean up to the fifth floor, where a short corridor leads up to four apartments, two on each side of the hallway. Dean finds number 52 and pauses, his heart rate spiking. There’s light seeping in through the crack under the door, which means someone’s home.

Dean raises a fist and knocks.

A few seconds pass with no sound or movement. Then, footsteps approach, a deadbolt slides open, a lock clicks—

“Dean?”

The unflattering lighting in the hallway certainly doesn’t help, the fluorescent strip casting a sickly hue over both of them, but Cas looks bad. He looks like he hasn’t cared for himself in days. There’s thick stubble on his jaw, deep bags under his eyes, an unhealthy tinge to his skin. His hair sticks out in a dozen different directions, even more ruffled than usual as if he’s been running his fingers through it. His jeans ride low on his hips, his t-shirt tucked in on one side but hanging loose on the other. Everything about him screams doleful – except his eyes. They widen at the sight of Dean, then crinkle, softening into a look Dean didn’t fully realize how much he’s missed.

It’s only thanks to an immense amount of self-control that he manages not to launch himself into Cas’s arms, to grab his face and kiss him silly right then and there. And then force him to take a shower and have some hot soup, ideally. “Hey, Cas,” he says instead. “Mind if I come in?”

Dean didn’t have any specific expectations of what Cas’s home would look like, but what he finds seems inadequate somehow. Plain gray couch facing the TV, plain coffee table, plain carpet, plain window curtains – and no signs of an actual human being living here. It’s a sad reflection of Castiel’s apartment back in Burbank, cold and uninhabited.

“You alone?” Dean asks, taking a few more steps inside to throw a glance down a short corridor that leads up to another room, presumably a bedroom.

“Of course. Who else could be here?”

Dean looks at an empty plate sitting on the coffee table, a half-finished glass of water. Evidence of a lonely dinner. “Dunno,” he mutters. “Heard you were under house arrest, so I thought you might have a CIA goon here keeping an eye on you or something.”

“There are other ways,” Cas says. He lifts his pant leg, revealing a black device the size of a tissue packet strapped to his ankle.

Dean blanches. “Jesus.”

Castiel shrugs, and tugs his pant leg back down. “It is what it is. How did you know I was under house arrest, anyway? And where I live?”

With some difficulty, Dean drags his eyes up to Cas’s face, his mind still somewhat stuck on the fact that they put an ankle monitor on him, like some common offender. “Michael stopped by. He dropped off my diploma.”

Cas perks up at that, his mouth stretching into a smile like Dean’s graduation status is his biggest concern right now. “Dean, that’s wonderful. I knew he would get it done.”

Dean blinks. “Wait, you knew about this?”

“Henriksen is still in occasional contact with Michael, and he let it slip when we last talked,” Cas admits. “But I wasn’t aware that the CIA went through with it.”

“So Vic’s still around, huh? I thought he’d be on a new assignment by now, in Chechnya or wherever.”

Cas lets out a small laugh, more of a gush of air than anything. “I bet he would love to.” Abruptly, his expression grows serious. “But Victor still needs to testify at the hearing tomorrow. And I never thought I’d say this, but it was good having him around these past weeks.”

He had no one else, Dean thinks numbly. All this time, Cas was here alone with Victor Henriksen of all people as his only company. That whole Naomi character probably chewed him up and spit him out while Dean was sitting comfortably at home, helping people pick out tablets and moping about like _he_ was the victim.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he asks hoarsely. “You could’ve— you know I would’ve come.”

Castiel sighs. “And what would that accomplish? I’m sure you had your plate full with explaining your absence.”

“Yeah, but— that’s not the point.”

Crossing the space between them, Castiel cups his hands around Dean’s jaw, the touch soothing and familiar. “This is mine to deal with, Dean.”

“It’s not,” Dean protests. “You still don’t get it.” He palms Cas’s hip, pulls him closer. “It’s not your job to protect me anymore. I don’t want a handler.”

“Dean—”

“Shut up,” Dean says, winded. “You can’t shut me out just because you think I shouldn’t have to deal with your problems.” He gives a self-derisive snort. “Especially if I’m the reason for them. If you think you spared me grief by going radio silent on me, you’ve got it all backwards. I was outta my damn mind wondering what’s going on with you. So I ain’t leaving here, whether you want it or not. I’m gonna drive with you to the hearing tomorrow, and then back here, and when they kick you out of this apartment, I’m gonna take you home.”

On some level, Dean realizes he’s being presumptuous. He still doesn’t know anything about Cas’s life – his real life, the one outside of the cover and the CIA. Maybe he has a family he wants to go back to now that his agency days are over. Maybe he has a home somewhere else.

But Cas’s eyes brighten, and he smiles wide enough to show his gums. He looks happier than anyone in his position has the right to be. “I’m about to become unemployed,” he says, his tone light. “And to lose my apartment. I’m eating my way through my savings, because my pay has been suspended retroactively. I have no plan for the future. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Dean raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “How thick do you think I am? I hear you. You’re in a shitty situation and you worry about being a burden. Which is pretty fucking stupid, because your boyfriend has just graduated from Stanford and is about to be bringing home some serious bacon.” Dean’s brow furrows as he rethinks that statement. “I mean, probably not right away, but we’ll get there. And you’ll be back on your feet in no time, too. But until then, whatever you need, Cas. Whatever you need and I’m here.”

It seems that Castiel knows exactly what he needs, because he slides his hand from Dean’s jaw to the back of his neck and pulls him forward.

Dean lets out an incoherent groan into Cas’s mouth. He’s exhausted, the fatigue leftover from the plane ride a dull ache in his body, but the need that flares in his gut meets dry kindling. It’s been almost two months, after all.

Almost two months without this. How did Dean even _survive_?

His rain-damp jacket hits the floor, abandoned as they stumble into Cas’s bedroom. While they shed the rest of their clothes, Dean notices an open suitcase sitting next to the nightstand, but then Cas pushes him flat on the bed, climbs on top of him and flips him over onto his stomach, and rational thought leaves the building. Soon Dean is shoving himself down on Cas’s hand, his moans muffled by the pillow below him.

“Jesus,” he gasps when Cas crooks his fingers. “Jesus, Cas—”

Warm lips graze his shoulder, trailing across his shoulder blades and down his spine. Dean ruts helplessly against the mattress, but a hand lands on the small of his back, stilling him.

“No, you don’t,” Cas says.

Breathing heavily, Dean obeys, though it takes conscious effort to suppress the twitching of his hips. He bites his lip as he feels Cas slip him another finger, whining as it sinks to the second knuckle. Despite the copious amount of lube Dean can feel dripping down his perineum, the burn makes his teeth clench.

Cas must be able to tell, because he slows the movement of his hand and leans closer, his body a long line of heat against Dean’s back. “Too much?”

Dean tips his head to the side and kisses the closest part of Cas he can reach, which happens to be his chin. “I’m good. Keep going.”

Castiel noses under Dean’s jaw and goes back to opening him up on his fingers, three of them now, in and out until Dean begins to thrust back and whisper “Please” with more desperation than he’d like to admit. Cas’s hand withdraws and Dean lies still, head buried in the pillow as he listens to the condom packet ripping open and the wet sounds of Cas slicking himself up.

He assumes they’re going to do it just like this, with Cas slipping into him from behind and draping himself over Dean the way he has so many times before, so he startles when a hand lands on his shoulder and pushes him onto his back. Blinking, he looks up to find Cas’s face inches above his own, pupils blown wide.

“I want to see you,” Castiel says. “Is that okay?”

Dean nods and grabs onto Cas’s hips, letting his knees fall open as Cas shuffles between them. To distract himself from the initial discomfort, he watches the sloping line of Cas’s shoulders, the way they tense and strain as he holds himself up over Dean, taking him inch by inch. Halfway in, Dean’s muscles decide to lock up, so Castiel rests a hand in the crease of Dean’s thigh and begins to rub small circles there, staying still even though Dean can feel him tremble with the effort to do so.

Dean focuses on his breathing, on the fingertip running soothingly over his skin, on the familiar scent of Cas’s body soap, on how much he fucking wants this – and then they’re flush, Cas sinking all the way in so suddenly they both groan in surprise.

“Dean,” Castiel moans, and _finally_, finally Dean hears that perfect composure crack.

“Yeah,” he says, stroking his fingers through Cas’s hair. He feels full to the brim, and not just in the physical sense.

For a moment they just breathe, Cas’s forehead pressed into the juncture between Dean’s neck and shoulder. Dean can feel the rapid staccato of his heartbeat where it thumps against his own.

He tightens his grip on Cas’s hair – not enough to hurt, but hard enough that it’s no longer a caress. “Move.”

Cas eases him into it with gentle rolls of his hips that raise a flush to Dean’s cheeks. He doesn’t rush and lets the rhythm build gradually, burying himself shallow and slow at first, then deeper and faster as his control slips. The transition is so smooth that Dean couldn’t pinpoint the moment he goes from quiet sighs of contentment to raking his nails over Cas’s back, breathless little _ah-ah-ah_’s spilling from him on each thrust. That’s what Castiel does: creeps up on him and sweeps him away before Dean knows what hit him.

“Fuck, oh, fuck,” Dean gasps when Cas changes the angle ever so slightly, hitting his prostate dead-on. His hand shoots out to grip the headboard behind him, and the words spill out. “Missed this so fucking much. Missed you.”

Castiel slides a finger under Dean’s chin and tips it back to kiss him, deep and sweet like he’s not ramming into him at the same time. “Me too,” he says against Dean’s mouth. And then, “I did consider calling you, you know.” His sentences are clipped, cut short with every wet slap of their hips. “Just to hear your voice. To remind myself— why I did what I did. Why it was worth it.”

Dean’s brain isn’t present enough to formulate a reply to that, so he settles for more kissing, sloppy and imprecise. Hazily, he wonders if he could come like this. He never has before, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten, the telltale tightness already spreading down his abdomen. He’s almost certain Cas could make him do it. He’s so wired that a light breeze could probably finish him off.

But Cas must be close now, too, because he wraps a hand around Dean’s cock before Dean can protest, strokes once (_Cas, wa—_), twice, and the final wave crests. Dean comes between them with a shout that barely sounds like him, drawing a deep groan from Castiel as he clenches around him. Eyes squeezed shut, he shoves his hips down, seeking that last bit of bliss before going slack.

For a while, he skirts the line between pleasure and oversensitivity, watching with glossy eyes as Cas moves above him. Once he can get his sluggish hands to cooperate, he cups Cas’s face, kisses his jawline. “Come on,” he whispers. Things are about to get uncomfortable down there, and he doesn’t want Castiel to have to withdraw before he comes. “Come on, Cas.”

With a grunt that sounds almost pained, Castiel buries himself inside Dean one last time, his hips grinding against Dean’s and his breath damp on Dean’s neck.

“There you go,” Dean murmurs. He cranes his head to kiss Cas’s sweaty hairline, the shell of his ear. There’s no way he’ll be able to walk normally tomorrow, and the thought delights him.

The afterglow takes a while to disperse, but once it does, Dean’s body protests _hard_. He’s been awake for something like twelve hours, five of them spent squeezed into an uncomfortable plane seat, and now he’s lying under 170 pounds of limp flesh with drying spunk smeared all over him.

“Cas,” he says. “Cas, get offa me.”

Though he lets out a disgruntled noise, Castiel lifts himself up on his elbows and pulls out, both of them wincing at the sensation. Through drooping eyelids, Dean watches as Cas does a minimum of damage control – ties off and throws away the condom, wipes away the mess of come and lube – then presses himself against Dean, drawing him in tight by the waist. Their legs tangle together, and something hard touches Dean’s calf.

The fog that settled over his mind clears in an instant, his body going stiff. The ankle monitor.

“What is it?” Castiel mumbles, the words fanning a hot breath over Dean’s collarbone.

“Nothing,” Dean says, hoarse. He fits his palm into the crook of Cas’s neck and brushes his finger over his pulse point. He’s tempted to leave a hickey there, high enough that a shirt collar won’t cover it. That way when Castiel goes to the hearing tomorrow, they will see, will _know_. They can tag him like a criminal, fire him, throw him out onto the street. They can deprive him of everything, but not of this.

“I can hear you thinking,” Castiel says. He takes Dean’s face in his hands and kisses him, light and sweet. “Stop.”

Dean sighs. “Aren’t you nervous? For tomorrow.”

“No. Naomi has already decided what she’s going to do, and whatever I do or say at the hearing won’t change it.”

“That sounds like bullshit.”

“That’s because it is.”

Dean hums. “So there’s not much hinging on that hearing, huh?”

“Nothing at all. I expect it might take a while, if only because she won’t pass up an opportunity to humiliate me, but it’s just a formality. This time tomorrow, I will be a civilian like you.”

Dean runs his knuckles over Cas’s cheek. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to think of him that way – an average Joe, an ordinary citizen. He has witnessed the kind of damage Cas can do. Looking at him, Dean will always see the guy who walked into his life guns a-blazing. Sharp shooter, reckless driver, professional liar. Someone who won’t be made any less deadly by getting stripped of his CIA job title. Someone who will never stop keeping Dean on his toes, whether it’s by luring him into ice-cold water, kicking his ass at board games, or pounding him into the mattress like there’s no tomorrow.

There are a lot of things Dean could say right now – _I’m sorry_, for one, or _You shouldn’t have had to choose, _or _I know you’ll miss it. _But Cas looks so warm and content lying there in his arms that Dean decides it’s not the time for gravity.

“America’s loss, my gain,” he whispers against Cas’s throat. When Cas lets out a laugh, he takes his time kissing it off his lips.

* * *

They arrive at LAX two days later, the surface of the Santa Monica Bay glistening golden in the distance as the plane begins its slow descent onto the runway. Dean lets out a long breath when the wheels hit the tarmac, releasing his crushing grip on the armrest. He’s not getting on another plane any time soon.

“Are you sure Sam and Sarah don’t mind me staying with you?” Castiel asks when they park themselves next to the baggage carousel. Dean’s duffel is small enough that he could take it as carry-on, but Cas brought all of his earthly possessions with him, having had to clean out the apartment he lived in for years. Even so, they all fit into a single large suitcase – some clothes, some books, some toiletries. Dean kept silent as he helped Cas pack, and pretended he didn’t notice that all of Cas’s personal belongings amounted to what a person might bring along with them for a two week vacation.

“Of course they don’t,” Dean says, eyeing a sticker-covered suitcase sliding from the chute onto the carousel. “In fact, I bet they’re gonna be on you the second we go through the door, so get ready.”

“On me,” Castiel repeats.

Dean tears his gaze away from another suitcase, tied up with bright orange string (that’s one way to make it easily distinguishable on the carousel, he supposes), and takes a closer look at Cas, at his hunched shoulders and clenched jaw.

“Hey,” he says, nudging Cas’s side with his elbow. “Not like that. They’re not mad, they’re just excited to see you.”

“Why?”

Dean laughs. “Why? I don’t know, man. They missed you.”

Castiel stares at him like he doesn’t understand. “But I_—_ I’ve been lying to them. You said you told them.”

“I did. They know.”

When Cas falls into confounded silence, Dean takes mercy on him. “They don’t blame you, Cas. I may have skipped the details, but they’ve heard enough to know that I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you. They’ll take you back with open arms, if you want. The real you.”

A female voice carries overhead, announcing that a plane from Seattle has just landed. Castiel worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

“What if I don’t know who that is?”

“I do,” Dean says, with confidence a reasonable person might call undeserved. And sure, he doesn’t know anything about Cas’s pre-CIA past. He still doesn’t know if Cas has any family, where he’s from, what high school he went to, who his first crush was, hell, not even what his real name is. But Cas has already told him that he plans to keep his old alias, and the time for filling in other gaps will come later, once he has settled into his new civilian life.

Dean is in no hurry. Everything that matters, he already knows.

“I spent all my adult life assuming and shedding identities,” Cas says, looking off into space over Dean’s shoulder. “I’m not sure if I remember how not to pretend.”

“We can always do some role-play in bed, if that helps,” Dean offers, waggling his eyebrows.

Cas shoves at his arm. “I’m serious,” he says, though the corners of his mouth tick up.

Dean schools himself. “Look, I get that it might be tough for you to switch gears, but you’ll get there. And while I can’t promise life with me will be half as exciting as your CIA assignments, you had a pretty decent dry run this past year, and it wasn’t that bad, right? And you could— hold on, that’s yours.”

One-handed, Castiel takes his suitcase off the carousel, puts it at his feet, and says, “I could…?”

Dean blinks. He has seen what’s inside that suitcase, and there’s no way it weighs less than fifty-five pounds. Maybe sixty. “Uh, you could— you know, get a job that’ll get your adrenaline pumping. Like, at LAPD or something.”

Castiel gives him a wry smile. “You think they’ll take me in, with my record?”

“Hey, you could always try. Even if they don’t, there are other options. Private investigator, for instance. You know there’s always gonna be demand for that in L.A. Tailing cheating spouses, gathering photo evidence and whatnot. With your background, you have more than enough skill to smoke the competition.”

“You’ve really thought this through.”

Dean ducks his head and rubs his neck. “Uh, maybe? The flight was long.”

Castiel grins.

“Shut up,” Dean says.

Taking the handle of his suitcase in one hand, Castiel snakes his other arm around Dean’s waist and pulls him close.

“Cas, we’re in public,” Dean mutters.

“I’ve noticed,” Castiel says. His palm slides to the small of Dean’s back, broad and warm. “But we have practice, don’t we?” He leans in, a breath away from Dean’s mouth, but turns his head at the last moment to press his lips against Dean’s cheek. Somehow, even that tastes different now. “There. Safe and decent.”

“Title of our sex tape,” Dean quips.

“What?”

Snorting, Dean wrenches the handle from Cas’s grip. The wheels squeak as he starts to roll the suitcase towards arrivals, Cas following suit. “Well, that settles what we’re gonna be watching over Christmas, then.”

Castiel sighs. “Was that a pop culture reference?”

“It was, and you’re hopeless.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t have time to watch TV while I was serving my country.”

The terminal’s exit is within sight now, the world beyond it dark with dusk that must have settled while they were unboarding and waiting for baggage claims. Dean throws a sideways glance at Cas.

“You’ve done enough, you know. I think your country won’t mind if you take some time off for yourself.”

Castiel hums in thought, stopping on the sidewalk once they’re through the terminal doors. He looks up, over cars lining both sides of the street, over people stuffing their suitcases into cabs, over shuttle buses flitting by.

Dean watches him; the curve of his neck, the line of his jaw, the sunglasses hung over the collar of his shirt. It strikes him that despite taking a nap on the plane, Castiel looks tired. A little nervous, maybe.

He touches Cas’s shoulder. “Home?”

Turning fully towards him, Cas nods. “Please.”

A taxi directly to Burbank costs more than a damn iPhone, but Dean forks it over without a word. He can’t help but think it’s worth it just to spend the next hour with Cas pressed against his side, nodding off on his shoulder as they drive through the blinking lights of Downtown Los Angeles.

There’s a small welcome home dinner waiting for them that Cas isn’t expecting. Last night, Dean locked himself in Cas’s bathroom to make two phone calls: to Sarah, who offered to make her tacos again (“Callback, Dean.”), and to Charlie, who announced she would bring Uno and her new Carcassonne expansion.

It’s nothing special, nothing they haven’t done a dozen times before.

Dean thinks Cas will like it.

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? Let me know in the comments or come scream at me about it [on tumblr](http://debatchery.tumblr.com) (or both).
> 
> For those wondering if there’s a chance for a sequel or time stamps: yes, definitely. I’m not ready to let this verse go just yet, not when there’s still so much to explore (Cas’s backstory, anyone?). As per DCBB rules, this story is of course a standalone, but stay tuned if you’re curious for more down the line.


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